


Unusual Voyage

by thenerdyindividual



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Boats and Ships, Confused Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit, No Period-Typical Homophobia, No period typical racism, Parties, Running Away, Slow Burn, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28881216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdyindividual/pseuds/thenerdyindividual
Summary: Lord Arthur Pendragon is tasked with escorting his sister Lady Morgana to New York for the summer so that she may practice before she is presented to society the next spring. They take the world's finest ocean liner, and while there Arthur meets a rather irritating steward.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To the captains and officer who taught me what I know, bet you didn't expect me to use my gifts for this!  
> (Note: This is not a Titanic AU. If that is what you're looking for specifically, you will be disappointed.)

“Welcome aboard, Lord Pendragon.” The purser says. He’s an older gentleman, perhaps a bit younger than Arthur’s father. His face is round, his eyes are brown and welcoming, “If you would follow our bellboys they can escort you and your sister to your rooms, along with any luggage you may have brought with you.”

“Thank you.” Arthur says politely, and collects the keys offered to him.

He turns, eyes searching for Morgana. He spots her off to the side, already looking murderous despite the best efforts of her maid, Gwen. Next to her George is trying to direct a bellboy on the proper way to load their trunks. His forehead is wrinkled with stress, and Arthur has no doubt that if it weren’t for the chilly sea air blowing in off the gangway, his poor valet would be sweating from the stress of it all.

George is an excellent valet. Always punctual, never speaking out of turn. He also happens to be the most boring and particular man Arthur has ever met. He likes things to be just so, right down to the knot in his tie. Despite having been riding in the front seat of the car for the better part of an hour, his brown hair is still neatly in place.

Arthur strides across the lobby, polished oxfords clicking on the rubolium floor. It shines brightly in the overhead lights, a never ending tan interspersed with red and blue-green art deco patterns for visual interest. Uther would hate it, proclaiming it to be too modern. Arthur finds he quite enjoys it, perhaps for exactly that reason. The halls stretch on for ages in either direction, and they are cast in a warm glow from the plain maple paneling.

“Where to, sir?” One of the bellboys asks as Arthur approaches. He can’t be more than fifteen.

“M-Deck, please.” Arthur answers.

The bellboy nods eagerly, and rings for the lift. It arrives, brass doors sliding open to reveal more wood, lighter in shade than the paneling used in the halls. They all manage to cram into the tiny car, though Gwen does trod rather painfully on his foot in the process. She offers him an apologetic smile that he waves away. Gwen has worked for them for years, he knows she couldn’t have meant anything by it.

The doors open on M-Deck, and everyone piles out to allow the next set of guests and employees inside. As they follow the bellboy to their room, he prattles on about the accommodations they can find on board. He draws particular focus to the travel bureau, insisting that it’s the easiest place to change their pounds for dollars before arriving in New York.

Arthur thanks him with a strained smile, promising to remember closer to the end of the journey. He carefully avoids the more probing questions the boy asks. It really isn’t any of his business why they’re travelling on board, and normally would have been harsher about etiquette, but each question seems to wind George ever tighter, and Arthur takes great amusement at winding George up.

They arrive at their rooms moments later. Their placement was as ideal as possible, closest to the center stack of the ship that they could get, making it only a few short steps from the lifts to their suites. Uther had insisted that his children be booked into the finest suites the ship had to offer, and had only backed down that slightly when both Arthur and Morgana had informed him that a suite of ten rooms was a bit too extravagant, even for them. 

The bellboy busies himself offloading their trunks into the luggage closets in their respective suites, and George fusses with their placement so much he nearly knocks one of Morgana’s trunks down. The bellboy hands them both pamphlets, and maps of the ship so they don’t get too horribly lost during their stay. 

“If you need anything, just track down one of the stewards and they’ll be able to help you,” the bellboy announces looking awfully proud of himself for the help he’s provided thus far, “You can just flip a switch like this one and the light in the hall will come on. Someone should be along to help you in under minute.”

Then he’s off to help more people with their luggage, and wind more Georges up.

Arthur’s room consists of a sitting room, bedroom, bathroom, and servant’s room. The paneling is a shade lighter than the paneling outside, and it has the same rubolium floor as the rest of the ship. Though here, rugs have been rolled out to make the room cozier. The bed is positioned under a porthole, and seems comfortable enough. The porthole is open, and the noise of the port drifts inside. Not ideal at the moment, but Arthur knows he’ll be grateful when the sun doesn’t consistently bake him each morning of their journey.

George is already unpacking. Arthur can’t fathom why he’ll need to unpack entire trunks for a five day voyage, but he leaves George to it and steps out to see how the girls are getting along.

When he enters the room, Morgana is actually smiling. It’s been a rare sight these days. She’s been a right terror ever since Uther announced that it was time to be presented to society. She’s been dead set against it from the get go, and Arthur can’t fathom why. He stopped being able to read her mind about the time she turned twelve, and she refuses to make his life any easier by actually telling him what she’s thinking.

“How are you getting on?” Arthur asks.

Morgana’s sweet smile drops from her face the moment he makes his presence known, and she scowls at him.

“Well.” She answers, voice clipped.

“If you need anything…” Arthur starts but Morgana’s lips tighten and he stops midsentence. Sometimes, she can be more terrifying than Uther.

“We can manage just fine, my lord.” Gwen says with a small shake of her head, no doubt amused by their antics. Bless Gwen for taking Morgana’s moods in stride.

Arthur steps back into the corridor, and is abruptly at a loss. He’s spent weeks preparing for their voyage, and now that he’s actually here he hasn’t the faintest idea what to do.

A few doors down a man in uniform, probably a steward his mind supplies helpfully, stands with a bellboy. The boy is nodding at whatever the steward is saying, eyes serious. The steward nods once and makes a little shooing motion with his hand, and the bellboy runs off to do whatever it is he’s supposed to.

The steward turns then, eyes meeting Arthur’s. His cheekbones are prominent in his thin face, made all the more distinct by dark hair. He smiles at Arthur and it crinkles the skin around his blue eyes. He inclines his head politely and, when it becomes clear that Arthur doesn’t need his help, strides passed him down the corridor. Arthur watches him go until he vanishes down a corridor on starboard side.

With nothing else to do, Arthur tries to familiarize himself with the ship. He’d been under the impression that in a confined space, there would be no way he could get lost. Then the chauffer had turned the corner into the port, and Arthur reconsidered. 

The ship is massive; over a thousand feet end to end with twelve decks in total. Granted, Arthur only needs to navigate seven of them. Even so it is an overwhelming prospect and he doesn’t want to spend the next five days asking directions from stewards. 

He steps back into the lobby of M-Deck. Other than the travel bureau, the lounges at either end are for cabin and tourist class respectively. He has no intention of slumming it unless he wants to get truly soused. Being stuck with George’s fussing, and Morgana’s sullenness for five days might be enough for that.

He mounts the stairs from M-Deck to the Promenade Deck and pauses for a moment on the landing, taking in the marble medallion of The Queen. She gazes sternly to port-side, a string of pearls wrapped around her neck. It’s a good likeness from what Arthur remembers of the one time she came to visit the estate when he was very young.

The main hall is abuzz with activity. There’s a book store, a smoke shop, a library, a drawing room, and an Austin Reed’s. He doesn’t need a new suit at the moment, but he can perhaps justify one on the return trip. After all, it wouldn’t do for him to look shabby when escorting Morgana to her presentation.

He wanders by the shop, glancing at the fabric as he does so. He continues up the hall, passing a playroom with several children already at play inside. He stops for a drink in the cocktail lounge, and admires the odd mural above the bar. People lost in the revelry of a celebration.

He ambles out of the cocktail lounge a moment later, and steps out onto the teak-wood deck. It shines just as brightly as the walls in the interior of the ship. The windows allow a spectacular view of the port below. He’s so high in the air that people below look like insects, scurrying around to get everything settled before the cast off.

Arthur finds himself entranced by the activity. Dock workers move with surprising graces as they load heavy trunks into the cargo hold. A large group of families and friends have gathered on the gangway. Some of them are embracing their loved ones like they’ll never see them again. Others are waving at passengers that are just out of view from Arthur.

He can’t fathom what all the drama is about. People hardly go missing at sea any longer. Cunard has a reputation for safety.

A small part of his mind still wishes Uther had cared enough to see him and Morgana off. He needn’t have stood on the gangway and wept. Pendragons don’t do emotion and it would have made everyone involved uncomfortable. Arthur would have settled for a stern nod and a ‘See you soon’.

He watches the activity until the horns blast, indicating that they’re finally taking to sea. They’re so loud he nearly jumps out of his skin and he glances around surreptitiously to make sure no one saw him. The ship glides smoothly away from the docks, and that surprises Arthur. For a ship of this size, he expected there to be a bit more of a lurch.

He stares out the windows until the Port of Southampton is a speck on the horizon. He continues on his initial aim of exploring. He finds the first class main lounge easily enough. It’s a spacious room, paneled in more of the maple he saw in the halls. The pillars are mounted with golden onyx lighting urns as tall as Arthur himself, and they cast a warm yellow glow on the assembled arm chairs and sofas.

It’s the exact kind of room Morgana would like. The program he was handed by the bellboy mentioned dancing in the evenings, and Arthur makes a mental note to convince Morgana to join in the fun. For his own sanity, he needs her to stop being so righteous about this whole thing.

He steps back out onto the wooden deck and continues to wander the length of it. He’s already going stir crazy. He’s going to be a proper madman by the end of this voyage if he can’t find something to keep himself entertained. He’s never been a fan of smoking, but he’s considering taking it up just so he has something to do.

He comes across a door, half hidden next to a wall. It’s unmarked, and it doesn’t’ seem to lead anywhere. Curiosity piqued, Arthur steps up to it, hand outstretched in order to push it open.

“Sorry, sir. That’s employees only.” A voice calls out, and Arthur pauses.

When he turns he recognizes the steward from before. He’s smiling politely, hands clasped behind his back. He looks entirely put together expect for his hair that, despite being cut short, swoops in waves across his forehead. 

“There isn’t a sign.” Arthur responds.

“I know. We have to shoo people away from here at least twice a day.” 

“If we aren’t allowed, then there should be a sign.” Arthur says, and moves to open the door again.

A brief scowl flits across the steward’s face, and Arthur takes a bit of pleasure in annoying him so.

“I’m as good as a sign, sir, and I’m informing you that that is employees only.”

Arthur shrugs and opens the door. It closes in his face with a resounding snap. The steward has one long fingered hand wrapped around the door handle, and he’s staring at Arthur with an intensely annoyed expression.

“Look. I know your type isn’t used to hearing the word no but I’m telling you, you can’t go back there.”

“What do you mean _my type_?” Arthur demands, abandoning his attempts to open the door. This steward is more interesting than anything that could be behind that door anyway.

The steward rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes.

“Blonde, wealthy, English.” The steward answers.

“You’re English.” Arthur points out.

“Debatable.” The steward says and Arthur can detect a faint trace of another accent underneath though he’s hard pressed to identify it under the current conditions, “Now move before you get run down by a maid or someone else trying to go about their duties.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.” Arthur says with an amused grin.

“I just did. Now, are you going to move or am I going to have to move you?”

Arthur pauses, looking the steward over. He’s only a little taller than Arthur, but he’s slim. Arthur’s shoulders are easily double the width of the steward’s.

“I’d like to see you try.” Arthur challenges before he can think better of it.

The steward raises his eyebrows, and Arthur has a brief moment where he thinks he’s won. The next thing he knows, he’s stumbling back across the deck. 

“Did you just shove me?” he asks, a little incredulous that a man that thin was able to budge him at all.

“You weren’t moving.” The steward responds calmly, like he didn’t just shove a member of the nobility as thought the two of them were children fighting in a school yard.

“What’s your name?” Arthur demands.

“Emrys.” Mr. Emrys responds, crossing his arms over his chest, “Please don’t be caught trying to enter employee areas again. I would hate to get a ship’s officer involved.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Arthur asks, in the snotty voice he’s heard his contemporaries use in restaurants a hundred times. It inevitably causes people to bow to and scrape, eager to please so they keep their jobs. Rather, it inevitably commands those reactions in most people. This Mr. Emrys must not have a shred of self-preservation because he just blinks back at Arthur mildly.

“It is the job of every steward to know the names, likes, and dislikes of every passenger on board.”

“Then you do know me?”

Mr. Emrys’s eyes crinkle in that smile again, and this close it take Arthur aback. Mr. Emrys is all lanky angles and impetuousness, but when he smiles he’s nearly handsome. It transforms his face so it goes from Fae and unusual, to something that makes sense. It’s as though all his features were designed specifically for smiling with the greatest amount of cheek and mischief manageable.

“I can narrow it down by process of elimination, if you’d like to hear it, Sir.” Mr. Emrys responds, still completely unfazed by Arthur’s threats.

Against his better judgement, Arthur finds himself smiling back. He isn’t used to exchanging barbs like this. Gone are the thinly veiled accusations against the circumstances of the estate, the slights against Morgana’s character that Arthur has to defend against, and the insinuations that Arthur himself may not be ready to inherit when his father passes. This discussion feels almost friendly, like the two of them are genuinely enjoying winding each other up for the sake of winding each other up. It’s highly inappropriate, but Arthur is hard pressed to care about it. 

He narrows his eyes at Mr. Emrys and nods, “Go on then. Dazzle me with your deductive skills as though you are a modern day Sherlock Holmes.”

“You’re first class, you wouldn’t be up here otherwise.” Mr. Emrys says, “You’re not a business magnate, otherwise you would have threatened to file a complaint against me. Instead you asked if I knew who you were, like it should be obvious. You’re not a celebrity because they dress far more flash, so you must be a member of the nobility. We only have three lords travelling on board today. So, given your age, either you’re Lord Pendragon, or Lord McGowan.”

“Yet you still treat me like a street ruffian trying to steal from your shop.”

Mr. Emrys raises his eyebrows, “Well, if the shoe fits.”

Arthur sputters a faint laugh of incredulity, “I was hardly going to steal anything.”

“But you _were_ acting like a child.”

“Says the man who pushed me.”

“Okay,” Mr. Emrys’s grin goes a little sheepish, “maybe the shove was a bit much. I’m not actually supposed to touch guests unless their lives are in immediate danger; falling overboard or something like that.”

Arthur stops to consider the ridiculousness of this situation. He’s standing on an ocean liner, steadily making its way to France to unload mail. In four days he’ll be arriving in New York, and dealing with American society and getting Morgana prepared for the Season. His worries are so far above the concerns of Mr. Emrys, yet they stand here arguing. Arthur has done nothing so beneath his station since he was a small child, his father has seen to that. He’s never been very good at being what his father wanted him to be, and one day away from him Arthur is already falling into bad habits.

Mr. Emrys stands on the deck, presenting the front of the perfect conscientious employee. His shoes are perfectly shined except for a faint scuff on the toe of the left one. His jacket is perfectly pressed, but one button is in danger of coming loose. His hair curls slightly around his ears, and the very fact Mr. Emrys has curls instead of greasing them into the latest fashion is an oddness. Arthur thinks perhaps Mr. Emrys might not be so good at doing as he’s told either.

“There’s something about you, Mr. Emrys.” Arthur says, still considering.

Mr. Emrys blinks at him, looking a bit caught off guard, but he smiles once more and asks, “Are you going to tell me if I narrowed it down right?”

“Lord Pendragon.” Arthur answers, and ambles away down the deck.

He exits out a set of doors at the stern, and finds himself on the outer portion of the Promenade Deck. It was designed to allow the passengers to walk laps around the ship at their leisure, but Arthur has no intention of strolling arm in arm with a young woman while he’s here. Morgana is more than enough to deal with on her own, let alone attempting to congregate with compete strangers and make a good impression on them.

He rests his elbows on the railing and gazes out to sea. The grey waters of the Atlantic churn around them as they sail on, for all the world a cork bobbing along in a current if only more technologically complicated. This close to the coast, the waves haven’t had a chance to grow choppy, not that Arthur expects much of a rough ride. Storm season doesn’t start until June, and it is only just May. He should be more or less safe from getting drenched.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, letting smoke from the stacks billow over his head, but when the sun finally sinks to the horizon, he rouses himself. His fingers are stiff from the cold, and his cheeks tingle from the ocean breeze. As he reenters the ship, his stomach growls, alerting him to the fact that he missed lunch and it is now nearly time for dinner. 

George is waiting for him in his cabin when he returns. Nearly the moment Arthur unlocks the door to his room, George is already upon him, stripping him out of his damp jacket. 

“The Lady Morgana wanted you informed she would be meeting you in the dining room. Gwen has already helped her change, My Lord.” George says quickly as he maneuvers Arthur into his dinner jacket, “The dining room is on C-Deck if you were uncertain.”

Arthur buttons his jacket and bats George’s hands away as he goes to fix Arthur’s hair. He isn’t a child, he is perfectly capable of making his hair presentable for fine company. He leans close to the mirror, poking the misplaced strands back into shape. With one last tug on his cuffs, Arthur is ready for dinner with Morgana.

“Make sure you get rest yourself George. You’ve been busy all day.”

“I will do my best, My Lord.”

That is George speak for ‘I will rest once every chore I deem necessary is completed’. Arthur just stops himself from huffing out a sigh. If he could have selected any other servant to come with him, he would have. It isn’t anything against George personally, he does his job well. It’s just that George functions best when there is lots of work to be done. He lives for polishing and organizing, and all of those will make him a good butler one day, but one day isn’t here yet, and it falls to Arthur to handle George. In the confines of a ship, that task becomes far more of a chore.

He steps into the corridor, and makes his way to the lift. The sound of his shoes against the floor muffled by the rumble of the engines. He considers waiting for the lift, but decides against it. All of them are blocked by a swarm of women and men dressed to their finest heading down to dinner. Considering the lift can only fit a handful of people at a time, it could take ages before one frees up enough for him to join. He takes the main staircase instead. 

The stairs come to a dead end across from the entrance to the pool, currently shut tight for the evening. On either side are the doors for the dining room, and Arthur pauses just long enough to let the attendant know his name. He’s let in with a respectful nod of the head and a, “Enjoy your meal, My Lord.”

The dining room is massive, stretching the full width of the ship. No wonder meal times don’t need to be had in shifts, it easily fits all of the first class passengers. There’s a set of doors at the aft end of the space, and they look as they might be sculptured out of bronze. A table sits in front of them, waiting for its occupant. Arthur finds Morgana somewhere near the center of the space next to a painting of birds. Her green dress contrasts sharply with the white linen cloth, and Arthur sees more than one gentleman admiring her as he sits.

From this angle, he can see a massive decorative map of the Atlantic painted on the forward bulkhead. It features two illuminated crystal ships in tracks, and they inch their way across the Atlantic with every bit of ocean the actual passenger liner devours.

He picks up his menu and pretends to look it over, “What did you get up to today?”

“I played cards in the drawing room with some of the dullest women I have met in my life.” Morgana says conversationally, still focused on her own menu, “You?”

“I ran into the most uncouth steward in existence.” Arthur gripes.

Morgana lifts her eyes from her menu, and looks at him critically, “Was he?”

“You doubt me?” Arthur asks and flips the menu over to look at the wine list.

Morgana’s mouth tugs up into her signature smirk, “I know you, Arthur. If you’re describing this young man as uncouth, there is every chance you deserved the treatment you received.”

“You would take his side.”

“You know what they say,” Morgana says, raising her eyebrows teasingly, “friend to all, enemy to none.”

“Do they say that?” Arthur asks, scrunching his face in mocking disbelief.

Morgana shrugs one elegant shoulder, “If they don’t, they should. In my experience, nothing could be truer.”

Their conversation comes to a halt when a server comes to take their orders for the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lord Arthur?” a voice calls as Arthur starts up the steps from main hall to the sun deck. 

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, counts to ten, and hitches welcoming smile onto his face. The voice is older, and vaguely familiar, and Arthur knows that means he’s just run into an associate of his father’s. He takes a moment to brace himself for long minutes of talking business, then turns around with that hospitable grin on his face.

He’s met with a man about his father’s age. His face is a bit craggy, his eyes small. His hair is grey, nearly white at the temples. Arthur has seen him every now and then at dinner, and he scrambles to remember a name. He descends the steps, and makes his way in the man’s direction. What is his name? Alinor? Alfred? They meet just beneath the etched glass light fixture hat dominates main hall, the medallion of the queen gazes at them from the top of the stairs, and Arthur feels as though her look might be disapproving. Whether that look is directed at him, or the man he’s about to speak to, remains to be seen.

Arthur sticks his hand out, shaking the man’s hand like they’re old friends, “It’s excellent to see you again, Lord Deorham.”

Alined. That’s it. Earl of Deorham. 

“It’s good to see you as well, Lord Arthur.” Lord Deorham smiles and releases Arthur’s hand, “I was unaware you would be travelling, otherwise I would have sought you out that first night.”

Arthur resists the urge to wipe his hand clean on the wool of his coat. Lord Deorham always struck him as rather slimy. “No harm done.” Arthur assures him easily, “I’m not here on any official business for my father. I am simply acting as escort to my sister.”

“She’s about to turn eighteen is she not?” Lord Deorham asks, doing an impressive impression of someone who actually cares about such things. As far as Arthur remembers, Lord Deorham has only one daughter, and she’s not yet old enough to have needed to go through the process of presentation. He won’t have had to go through the nightmare that is trying to get a woman ready for the social season. Although, Arthur can admit that perhaps his and his father’s experience has been more difficult than others’. After all, not many of them could have had a young lady such as Morgana to contend with. Sometimes Arthur thinks she should have been born a man, her stubbornness and tendency to play politics would be something to praise them.

“She will in November. My father thought it wise to let her practice being a proper woman in society abroad first.” Arthur answers.

Just then, the ship rocks sharply to the side. It isn’t anything to worry about, ocean liners are known to pitch and roll constantly. Lord Deorham seems not to be able to take it in such stride as Arthur himself. He holds out a hand to balance himself, and he squints his eyes like he’s about to be sick. Arthur takes a subtle step back just in case Lord Deorham loses the battle with his stomach. As much as George enjoys keeping busy, Arthur thinks it might be a tad unfair to make him scrub another man’s sick out of Arthur’s clothes.

Lord Deorham sucks in a deep breath, steadying himself as the ship pitches gently in the other direction. It’s almost funny to watch. Arthur has met Lord Deorham at dinner enough times to know that he likes to try to play the game of sabotage. He wonders vaguely if Deorham’s valet is here. He doubts highly that Deorham kept him around after the failed debacle in which the man tried to slip soap into the soup at a dinner party. No one had any proof that Deorham had ordered it, and he had therefore walked free and unashamed, but everyone there that evening fully believed Deorham was behind the attempt. So perhaps it’s a little satisfying seeing him struggle not to lose his guts like this. 

“You father is a wise man, of course.” Lord Deorham says breathlessly, “He’s managed to keep that estate of yours afloat when so many are struggling after the economic downturn.”

“He has a head for business.” Arthur agrees mildly.

Lord Deorham looks wrong footed again, as though he expected Arthur to jump right into explaining exactly how his father kept their estate in peak condition. The simple answer is by being a penny-pinching miser, but Arthur doubts that would go over well in this crowd. He knows his father already thinks him foolish for thinking that their loyalty lies with their tenants and not the family name. He certainly isn’t going to give Lord Deorham anything with which to improve his standing among his fellow nobility, especially if it’s off sinking the name Pendragon lower.

“Right,” Lord Deorham says stiffly, “In any case, I would like to make up for my transgression.”

“Your… transgression?” Arthur asks, peering uncertainly at Lord Deorham. 

Lord Deorham goes slimy again, and smiles a snake oil smile, “Yes, of course. I was unable to dine with you that first night, so I shall make up for it now. Please, join me for dinner tonight. I can hardly allow Lord Camelot’s son to go unwelcome.”

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from telling Lord Deorham to buzz off. He has no desire to sit through a tedious hours’ long dinner in which nothing will be discussed beyond how many sheep their estates are producing, how many piglets are expected to be born, or what crop yield can be expected that autumn. For one thing, pulling figures out of thin air has never been Arthur’s strong suit. Another is that inevitably, Lord Deorham is going to try to maneuver an alliance of some kind from them, and Arthur is in no position to negotiate any sort of trade or investment opportunities. Unfortunately, he also can’t be seen to be snubbing the peerage, so he chuckles in a way he hopes is charming. 

“There was no transgression.” He says as if this whole thing is the most amusing thing he’s ever heard, “I am, however, delighted to dine with you. Shall we say seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock, my good man.” Lord Deorham agrees and smooths out the planes of his suit jacket, “I look forward to it. I don’t have much in the way of company.”

“I am looking forward to it as well.” Arthur lies, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the process of tracking down my sister. I had a matter to discuss with her.”

“Of course. Of course.” Lord Deorham says, waving his hands in a shooing motion, “Don’t let me keep you.”

Arthur says a polite goodbye, and does not point out that he’d already been waylaid in his task. He is meant to be above such petty irritations. It does not stop him from thinking about it. Loudly. He mounts the port side steps to sun deck at a sedate pace, even though he feels far more like fleeing. He emerges, blinking into the sun, and inhales a deep lungful of sea air. 

Morgana is probably down in the drawing room again, but Arthur has been trying to let her have her freedom while on board. There’s hardly much trouble she can get into on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, and if Arthur tried to nanny her they would both go mad. They love each other, really, but his father raised them both with a competitive streak wider than the Atlantic, and unfortunately that streak gets turned on one another more often than not. It’s what happens when one is more or less banned from playing with the village children. The only other children they experienced growing up were the children of nobility who came for parties, or a stop by. Therefore, their friendship got tangled with good old fashioned sibling rivalry. 

“I can’t believe I agreed to dinner.” Arthur mutters to himself

A wave batters uselessly against the side of the ship. Sea spray splatters high along the hull and soaks he deck beneath Arthur’s feet. The hem of his trousers get a little damp in the process, and he has to hold on to the railing to keep himself from staggering backwards as the wave causes the ship to roll once more. It is no wonder so many report feeling sea sick. Arthur has never been sick easily in his life, but he thinks that someone with even a mildly weaker stomach than his own would certainly be struggling with the constant rocking. The crew must all have top notch stomachs. Perhaps it might even be part of the interview process to be hired. 

He stands and watches the play of the waves against the red and black hull until he can start to feel the salt drying on his face. He may have been using Morgana as an excuse to get away from Lord Deorham, but he does need to inform her that she will be dining on her own tonight. He is already prepared for her general teasing of both his wind-swept appearance, and the fact he has been dragged into business in what was meant to be a business free season. 

He pauses at the entrance to the steps into main hall and squeezes some of the dampness from his coat before entering. The floors may have been designed to be slip proof, but he still feels as though dripping across the floor would be rather rude. 

He crosses main hall, ignoring the crowd of people in front of the smoke shop. He bypasses the brightly lit entrance to the bookstore, and comes to a stop outside the drawing room. Technically, he’s allowed to go in. Just as women are technically allowed in the first class smoking lounge. There is just some unspoken rule that neither of those are the done thing, so Arthur just pokes his head around the doorway again. 

A group of women sit on sofas off to one side, giggling to one another. A couple read in front of the fire place. Arthur spots Morgana playing a card game of some kind with a blonde young woman about her age. 

“Morgana.” He calls, just loudly enough for her to hear, but not loud enough to interrupt the activities of the other women. A few of them look up anyway, eyeing him curiously. When it becomes clear he is not about to invade their domain, hey return to giggling, reading, and embroidering. Morgana rolls her eyes playfully at her companion, then rises with far too much grace for a young woman Arthur who once tackled him so hard as a child that he saw stars.

“Yes, brother dear?” she asks, eyes flicking over his appearance, “Decided to take a bath with your clothes on?”

“Yes, Morgana. That’s exactly what I did.” Arthur says dryly.

Morgana smiles mischievously and adjusts the peach fabric of her wrap so it sits higher on her shoulders, “Did you need anything?”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own for dinner tonight.”

“How will I survive?” Morgana asks sarcastically.

Arthur fixes her with an unimpressed look, “I’m sure you’ll find a way. You’re smart enough.”

“Can I ask why I am being left to entertain myself?”

“I was cornered by Lord Deorham.” 

Morgana’s eyebrows tilt upwards in amusement and her smirk turns into an actual grin, “You’re having dinner with Lord Deorham?”

“So it would seem.” Arthur says through clenched teeth.

“Well,” Morgana says and though she isn’t laughing, she may as well be, “Do try to have fun. I think you should be safe from soap in your food as the kitchens prepare everything.”

“Your confidence is astounding.”

“Is that all you needed?” Morgana asks, “Can I get back to my game now?”

Arthur waves her off, and decides to wander about the ship for a bit longer. There is still several hours before he needs to get ready for dinner, after all. He resists the urge to stay too long in the cocktail lounge. While getting drunk so as to make his impending appointment with Lord Deorham more bearable, he knows it’s better to have his wits about him. 

He returns to his room in time to change and fix his hair. George is already there, as always, with one of Arthur’s dinner jackets spread neatly on the bed. Arthur hangs his coat in the wardrobe, and enters the bathroom to splash some water on his face. He towels his face dry, and then sets about fixing his hair. His time on deck was enough to loosen the grip of the products he uses, and the damp and salt have turned the strands into a wavy mess, as though he’s been running his fingers through it. It takes several minutes of dedication with a comb before he’s presentable once more. 

He steps into the bedroom once more, and George helpfully holds up a clean shirt for Arthur to wear. Arthur shrugs it on with no comment, but when George moves to button it, Arthur notices something is off. George is always neat and precise in his movements, but his fingers fumble clumsily over buttons he’s done up thousands of times before. Arthur frowns at him, noticing the flush on George’s cheeks.

“Are you quite alright, George?” Arthur asks as he tugs his sleeves into their proper place for cufflinks.

George blinks at him, looking a bit glassy eyed, “Everything is perfectly well, My Lord.”

“If you’re not feeling well…” Arthur starts as George slips the cufflinks into place.

George shakes his head vigorously, “No, My Lord. I am perfectly fine. I appreciate the concern, but there is no need to worry.”

Arthur hesitates for a moment before giving in. He doubts he could wrangle George’s true well-being out of him even upon his death bed. Arthur will just have to keep an eye on him and insist he see the ship’s doctor if things take a turn for the worse. It would be just his luck for George to catch something right when Arthur is going to need him most.

“Very well,” Arthur allows, “but if you do start to feel poorly, I want you to see someone.”

“Of course, My Lord.” George agrees with a sloppy nod. 

Arthur hesitates again at the door, wondering if he should return and drag George off to be seen to. In the end he decides to go to dinner first. Things are hardly going to get that much worse in just the few hours allotted for dinner and drinks. Drinks may not have been included in the original plans, but Arthur has listened to his father complain about these impromptu meetings enough times to know that he will inevitably be pulled into after dinner drinks.

Arthur has never been more disappointed to be right. As if dinner was not enough torture, Lord Deorham insists on drinks in the cocktail lounge after. It is hours of nothing but investments, returns on interest, and the cost of repairs on estates. Lord Deorham never asks how much money Arthur’s father has outright, he would never be so rude, but Arthur can tell that that is exactly what Lord Deorham is fishing for. It takes ages before he grows weary of Arthur’s evasive answer and packs it in for the night. Arthur’s only entertainment was watching Lord Deorham flinch every time the ship lunged down the back side of a wave. 

The cocktail lounge’s large windows run the entire semi-circle of the room, and offered unobstructed views of the bow. Someone with Lord Deorham’s delicate constitution should have thought about the view before deciding to host a meeting there. Arthur, for one, finds the view fascinating. Each time the nose of the ship plows seemingly straight down into the waves, he wonders if they are going to shatter, and there’s a thrill every time they don’t. 

He still jumps at the opportunity to flee to his room. 

“Was your dinner successful, My Lord?” George asks as Arthur closes the door behind himself.

Apparently a few hours can make a difference. George is decidedly worse off than when Arthur left him. He stumbles across the room, eyes unfocused, and can barely keep his eyes open. Arthur steps behind him, takes him by the shoulders, and steers him directly to the side door for the servant’s quarters. 

“I can dress myself tonight, George. You need your rest.” Arthur says firmly.

George staggers towards the bed when Arthur gives him a little shove, and stands next to it blinking as if the world makes no sense. Arthur has never seen George make that face in all his years of service. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Arthur snaps, “Good god man, you’re about to fall over. Just get some rest.”

Arthur dresses himself for bed that evening, and in the morning, George hasn’t made any improvements. He’s pale and trembling. Sweat stands out against his forehead, and Arthur doesn’t need to touch him to know that George has a fever. Arthur drags a hand over his face, thinking irritated thoughts about stubborn men who won’t just take care of themselves, and flicks the switch in the main room to summon a steward. 

The young man is probably a few years younger than Arthur, closer to Morgana in age. He smiles politely when Arthur answers the door. “You turned on the call light, My Lord?”

“I need you to summon a doctor. It seems my valet has taken ill.”

The steward shifts nervously, eyes widening, and nods, “I’ll be back right away.”

Dr. Gaius is an old man with white hair that hangs to his chin, and little half-moon spectacles that perch on the end of his nose. He shuffles into George’s room with a critical look in Arthur’s direction. Arthur stays out from under foot and lets him get on with examination. His fretting won’t help George any, and he has a feeling that Dr. Gaius would probably have some choice words for him about George continuing to work while ill. The fact Arthur told him to get rest notwithstanding.

“He has the flu.” Dr. Gaius announces when he emerges from George’s room, “He’s going to need to stay in the isolation ward so he doesn’t infect anyone else. He doesn’t appear to be in any danger, but I doubt he’ll be well enough to work again by the time we arrive in New York.”

“I’ll make arrangements to have him picked up at port in Southampton.” Arthur swears.

Dr. Gaius nods approvingly, “The extended rest will do him good. I’ll return to transfer him to the isolation ward in a few moments.”

“Thank you for your help.” 

Dr. Gaius smiles a little, pats Arthur on the shoulder, and leaves. It’s only then that Arthur realizes he’s out a valet for the duration of his stay on the stay on the ship. Regardless of what Morgana might say, he is actually capable of dressing himself, but some of the clothes go on far easier with an extra set of hands. The dinner clothes are the biggest culprit in that. 

He spots the same steward from before walking down the hallway, and calls out to him.

“Yes, My Lord?” he asks as he stops outside of Arthur’s door.

“I was wondering if there might be anyone to spare that could cover some of the duties of my valet now that he’s recovering.”

The steward cocks his head, and his eyes go far away as he considers Arthur’s question, “I believe so, My Lord. If you could just give me few moments to get it arranged?”

“Take all the time you need.”


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, when Arthur said “take as long as you need” he was trying to be a gracious guest. Good impressions are everything, or so he has been told since he was very young. It’s something that has been ingrained in him practically from birth. What has not been ingrained in him since birth, is patience. So after ten minutes of waiting, he starts pacing. After twenty, he starts obsessively checking his watch that he left on the nightstand the night before when he’d changed without George’s help. At thirty minutes, there is finally a knock at the door.

Arthur scowls, thinking of all the complaints he could make about the service on board, especially after the run in with Mr. Emrys on the deck the first day here. Then one by one he lets the complaints go. For all that the ones about Mr. Emrys might be legitimate, he doesn’t really want to rat the man out. He’d made Arthur laugh. He opens the door with as close to a friendly smile as possible, and his scowl returns instantaneously. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snaps.

“You’re very pleasant in the morning.” Mr. Emrys says with an amused frown, like he finds his own joke utterly hilarious, “I’m here to serve as your makeshift valet for the remainder of the journey, Sir. We should arrive in New York on the morning after tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe they sent you.” Arthur complains, “Don’t they have anyone less addled?”

“Addled. Really? You think _I’m_ addled? I’m not the one who tried to go into an employee area after an employee told him not to.”

“You must be addled if you think I’m letting you anywhere near my things.”

Mr. Emrys’ face smooths from an irritated frown into a flat unimpressed look and he says, challengingly, “Move.”

“No!” Arthur says, placing hands on hips in a way that has always managed to intimidate anyone into agreeing with him, “I am not letting you in.”

Mr. Emrys remains as unimpressed as he was that first day when Arthur tried to leverage his standing in society. “I am not losing my job because of you. Move.”

“No.” Arthur says stubbornly.

“Move,” Mr. Emrys says in a surprisingly stern voce given his age, “or I’m going to shove you again. We both saw how well that turned out last time.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, but Mr. Emrys takes a menacing step forward, and Arthur sighs in irritation. The last thing he needs is a nosy neighbor poking their head out of their room to see what all the fuss is about. It would somehow inevitably get back to his father, and he would never hear the end of it. Mr. Emrys wins again.

Arthur throws his hands in the air and steps aside to let Mr. Emrys into the room. He offers Arthur a cheeky smile, and it’s that same damn smile from their first meeting on the deck. The one that tricks you into thinking Mr. Emrys is anything other than a pill. It makes Arthur want to throttle him for his own sanity. Even spending two days with Mr. Emrys as his valet is too much time spent in the same room as him, especially when Mr. Emrys has, apparently, still not fixed the blasted button on his jacket. How hard can it be to find black thread? Every steward dresses the same, surely there is black thread for repairs by the spool-full. 

“Right,” Mr. Emrys says brightly, “What exactly am I doing?”

“Helping me dress.” Arthur answers and closes the door behind them.

Mr. Emrys turns, one eyebrow raised in a fairly decent imitation of Dr. Gaius, “You can’t dress yourself?”

“No.” Arthur says shortly.

Mr. Emrys mutters something under his breath and Arthur feels his scowl deepen. The fact that Mr. Emrys has lasted long enough in Cunard to not only make steward, but make it as a steward on her crowning glory is a sad reflection of their hiring practices. Mr. Emrys has never heard of manners, let alone addressing your betters with respect. That no one has filed a complaint against him is sheer dumb luck on his part. 

“Right.” Mr. Emrys says with determination and crosses over to the wardrobe where George thoughtfully hung up all of Arthur’s clothes that would fit. It isn’t George’s fault that the trip required Arthur to pack so many things and, truthfully, Arthur would have much preferred to leave at least half the luggage in his suite behind. Sadly, Society Rules are still applicable while at sea. It requires minimum two changes of clothes a day, and never once may one repeat an outfit.

After some rifling through the wardrobe, Mr. Emrys finally emerges holding a jacket and a pair of trousers. His eyes are crinkled a bit around the corners, proud at having chosen an outfit out of the veritable stockroom that is Arthur’s wardrobe. Unfortunately for him, he’s chosen a dinner jacket.

“That won’t work.” Arthur says, feeling twinge of satisfaction when Mr. Emrys’ huffs an irritated sigh.

“And why won’t it work?” 

“It’s a dinner jacket.” 

“A dinner jacket.” Mr. Emrys repeats flatly, “You can’t wear it during the day, because it’s a jacket specifically for wearing to dinner.”

“Got it in one.” Arthur says sarcastically.

Mr. Emrys turns from him, and Arthur smirks a little. There’s a line of tension in Mr. Emrys’ shoulders now. Serves him right for giving Arthur a headache by merely existing. Let him feel what it’s like to have one’s patience tested.

Mr. Emrys replaces the jacket in the wardrobe, and pulls out the one that Arthur was wearing yesterday.

“That won’t work either.”

“Why?”

“I wore it yesterday.” Arthur responds.

“You’re joking.” Mr. Emrys says, lowering the jacket a bit, “Why does that matter?”

“I’m not to be seen in the same clothes twice aboard this boat.”

“Why the hell not? They’re clothes! They’re meant to be worn!”

“If you’re having trouble, I could always ask someone else to step in.” Arthur says mildly.

Mr. Emrys glares at him, fingers going white knuckled on the hanger holding Arthur’s jacket, “Fine. Pick the clothes yourself then.”

“But that’s a valet’s job.” Arthur says as though there haven’t been plenty of times over the years where he picked his own clothes because George was forced to take time off for some reason or another. It isn’t relevant right now, not when it looks like Mr. Emrys might be willing to attempt to punch Arthur on the nose for being uncooperative.

“Look, you can either help me or you can go to breakfast in the first class dining room still dressed in your pajamas.” Mr. Emrys says and turns around. He crams Arthur’s jacket back in the wardrobe far less gently than George would have, and Arthur has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.

“What kind of a man can’t tell the difference between a day jacket and a dinner jacket anyway?” Arthur asks casually, and brushes passed Mr. Emrys to pick the clothes like Mr. Emrys suggested. 

“A man who has better things to do with his time, perhaps?” Mr. Emrys suggests idly.

Arthur hums disbelievingly, “Appearances are important Mr. Emrys, something you clearly need to work on.”

“I have maybe three shirts that aren’t for the uniform.” Mr. Emrys snaps, “Some of us have more important concerns than making sure we’re decked out in the latest fashions from London or Paris.”

*

“You won’t believe the morning I had.” Arthur says as he settles across from Morgana on the breakfast table.

She sets aside the book she’s reading, takes a sip of her tea from a pristine white china cup, and sets it back on its saucer before asking, “Well, what happened?”

Arthur rolls his eyes at the flair for the dramatic. She only started it in the last few years, when it became apparent that their father was determined to make a political match benefiting the estate rather than letting her find her own partner. Her response has been to become as unmarriageable as possible, and Arthur would be impressed by how well it’s working if it weren’t for the fact her disdain gets turned on him nearly as often as it is on their father.

“George is ill.” Arthur says and flags down a waiter, “The doctor said he should recover just fine, but I’ve had to make do with a steward as a valet.”

“The horror.” Morgana responds sarcastically and takes another sip of tea as the waiter arrives at their table.

Arthur puts in his choices for breakfast, then turns back to Morgana, “You will never guess who they stuck me with.”

“If I can’t guess, then you may as well tell me.”

Arthur can tell when her patience is running low, and cuts to the chase. “That steward I met our first day on board. The one who threatened to get a ship’s officer involved.”

Morgana stifles a laugh behind one hand, green eyes sparkling with mirth. Arthur sighs. Of course Morgana would think it hilarious rather than a cruel twist of fate. She’s always loved anything that drives Arthur mad. He sits there, waiting for her laughter to subside.

When it finally does, she’s still smiling, but she asks, “And how well is that going?”

“The idiot can’t tell the difference between a day jacket and a dinner jacket.” Arthur complains.

A waiter mysteriously appears at their table once again and sets Arthur’s coffee down. He vanishes back into the crowd of guests and waiters as mysteriously as he arrived. Arthur lifts the lid from the sugar bowl and begins loading his coffee with sugar. 

“I don’t know why you bother drinking coffee when you just fill it with sugar.” Morgana says critically, around the third cube. Arthur ignores her. “I do hope you’re not giving that steward too hard of a time.” She adds after Arthur replaces the lid on the bowl.

“I’m not giving him too hard of a time.” Arthur grumbles and takes a sip of his coffee.

Morgana fixes him with one of her accusing glares, “I know what you’re like when you’re irritated. You turn into a bully, and he doesn’t deserve to be bullied for trying to do a job he was never trained to do.”

“I do not turn into a bully.”

“You do.” Morgana says, “You threw so many things at Morris that I heard he ended up in an asylum for a stress related mental break.”

“That was nothing but a rumor.”

Morgana doesn’t get a chance to respond. At that moment the waiter returns bearing a tray with both their breakfasts. He unloads two plates of toast and fruit, sets out a couple of jars of jam; careful not to set them directly on the table cloth so as not to stain the linen. Task complete, he nods his head politely, and once more fades away into the stream of activity. Mr. Emrys could learn a thing or two from this waiter. Politeness for one.

“If you’re mean to him, I’ll tell Gwen.” Morgana threatens as she begins buttering her toast, “You’ve never been able to hold up under her disappointed face. Remember the time you got too rough playing rugby with the village boys and you ended up trying to cook her dinner to make up for it?”

“I’m not sixteen anymore, Morgana.” Arthur sighs. 

The little detail he’d managed to keep from her was that he fancied Guinevere at the time. She was the first girl he’d talked to who wasn’t after him for his money, or his sister. It was sort of inevitable that he should develop feelings for her. They’d faded after a time, but he’s treated her more like a friend ever since, and as loathe as he is to admit it, her disappointed face still gets to him.

“Exactly.” Morgana says sharply, “You aren’t a boy anymore. You’re meant to be _my_ chaperone, not the other way around.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says before she can pick up steam and make him listen to her rant for several hours, “When did the argument start? I never said a word about bullying the man. I just said he was irritating the day we met and now I’m stuck with him for two days.”

Morgana sinks back in her chair, “There are moments you are too much like Father.”

“You’re no better.” Arthur snipes back.

This, right here, was why he tried to object when his father demanded he escort Morgana in America. The two of them get along famously only when there’s someone else to take the brunt of their irritation with each other. Usually the person in question is their father. Arthur has lost track of the number of times he’s egged Morgana’s tirades at their father on. Unfortunately, when alone the trades get directed at him, and they sound nearly identical to the ones their father uses when he thinks Arthur might not be strong enough to inherit the estate.

The rest of breakfast is held in silence.

The next order of business is taking care of George’s return trip home. His ticket is already paid for, so realistically there should only be an exchange fee. Sadly, that probably won’t stop his father from ranting about incompetence and laziness. After his fight with Morgana, Arthur is in no mood, but George is counting on him for this. It would be selfish to avoid it just because he is having a spectacularly horrible morning.

He avoids the lifts again, despite them not being all that crowded on this level. He could do for a bit of exercise after being cooped up inside like this. He still hasn’t bothered with Promenade Deck. If he walked it by himself too many times, people might get it in their heads that he is a lonely bachelor in need of a wife. He isn’t any more ready to get married off than Morgana is. 

He climbs the four decks to the Promenade level, and veers right at the top of the landing in the main hall. He finds the telephone booth set into one bulkhead next to the first class lounge and it is, thankfully, unoccupied. After some frustrated fiddling with payment and switchboard operators, he finally gets the ring that indicates that his call is being connected. 

“Camelot Estate, Mr. Clarkson the butler speaking.” Comes the distorted voice when the line is picked up on the other end.

“Clarkson, it’s Arthur.” Arthur says, bracing his hand against the wall of the phone booth when the boat pitches again. It seems like the rolling is more dramatic the higher you go.

Arthur can practically hear Clarkson straightening his clothes on the other end of the call, “My Lord, what can I do for you?”

“I need for you…” Arthur starts to say ‘I need you to get my father on the phone’, but he pauses to reconsider, “I need for you to arranged George’s return early. He fell ill while on board and the doctor is insisting he return as quickly as possible to the estate in order to recover.”

“Of course, My Lord, I will discuss it with your father immediately.”

“Thank you, Clarkson.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“No that was all.” Arthur assures him, then asks, “How is my father, today?”

“He seems in fine spirits. The village doctor has been to see him and he says that he thinks Lord Camelot is recovered from this recent bout of illness.”

“That’s good to hear. Thank you again, Clarkson.”

Arthur hangs up the phone a moment later, and sags tiredly against the wall of the phone booth. He’s well aware that the door is made of glass, so almost anyone could look in and see him, but he hopes that everyone will be too polite to comment. This whole situation is exhausting. He isn’t ready to take over, but given his father’s health…

Arthur shakes himself. No point dwelling on it. Exhaustion isn’t anything that a quick lie down in his suite won’t fix. 

He takes the stairs down one level to M Deck and heads for his room. The door is ajar when he gets there, and his heart leaps in his chest. For a moment he has visions of someone rifling through his things, stealing away the few personal affects that Arthur allowed himself to bring. His only comfort is that his mother’s ring still sits in its customary place on his thumb.

Inside, he finds Mr. Emrys and Guinevere standing in front of the wardrobe. Guinevere has a day jacket in one hand and a dinner jacket in the other. Mr. Emrys has a slight crease in his brow, and he nods along to whatever Guinevere is saying. Arthur thinks, absurdly, that they could make a good couple. Guinevere’s hair is lighter shade of brown than his and far curlier, her skin has always been a golden brown but it seems warmer somehow against how pale Mr. Emrys is. Together she looks a bit like the sun, warmth emanating from her every movement. Mr. Emrys looks like the moon, reflecting her light.

He’s been spending too much time listening to Morgana read poetry.

“What’s going on here?” he asks conversationally as he enters.

Mr. Emrys grins and gestures at the jackets Guinevere is holding aloft, “Gwen is being incredibly helpful. She’s taught me how to tell the difference between clothes and how to hang them up so they don’t get wrinkles.”

“Good, so you won’t be completely useless tonight when I ask for help changing for dinner.”

Mr. Emrys rolls his eyes and turns back to Guinevere, “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

“Of course. I know how confusing it can all be if you’re not born into it.”

Mr. Emrys smiles winningly at her, presses a kiss to her cheek and heads for the door, tossing a “See you tonight, Sir!” over his shoulder as he exits. Insult and begrudging use of title all wrapped into one remark. Really, his flippancy should be taught in schools.

“You weren’t very kind to him.” Guinevere says with her patented disappointed face. It only works because Arthur has seen her approval face as well. 

“He’s a big boy. One insult will hardly be enough to shake Mr. Emrys. Not with that attitude.” Arthur dismisses.

“He’s trying to learn.” Guinevere insists, “It isn’t part of his official job, but he’s still trying to learn. Respect that and he’ll be more likely to respect you.”

The truly annoying thing about Guinevere and Morgana? They’re usually right.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur was under the impression that life at home was boring and repetitive. That’s nothing compared to life on the ship. Sure, there’s plenty of places to sit and relax, to enjoy four to five days of leisure. There’s places to smoke and gossip, and there are places to read and gossip. There’s an entire deck to stroll along, four hundred meters of it in fact. There is a deck dedicated to sport, namely shuffleboard. Arthur has no interest in any of it. 

He’d almost rather be part of the crew. He may not like being told what to do, but at least it would give him something to bloody do. He could carry cases and fetch drinks, it would probably be best that he stay out of the kitchen. The cook at home chased him from the kitchen the one and only time he got it into his head to cook. Morgana still enjoys teasing him about the smoke that forced everyone in the kitchen to evacuate until such a time as it could be aired properly. 

There are tasks left to do at home. He still has yet to prove to his father that he knows how to handle business with tenants; that he isn’t as soft a touch as his father would like to believe. Just because he believes the Pendragons should be as loyal to the tenants of Camelot as they are to the Pendragons, does not mean Arthur is not suited for running the estate once his father passes. Besides proving his worth, there are actual tasks to attend to. Spring means births, and Arthur has helped the farmers count chicks and piglets and lambs since he was old enough to walk. There is planting to be organized, and that means additional help hired from the village.

Instead, Arthur is here, standing in the library on an ocean liner trying to pick put a book to read so he has something to occupy his mind. He gave up on having a lie down after staring at his ceiling for nearly twenty minutes without getting any closer to a nap.

He can’t fathom how Morgana does it. She’s as bright as him, and while she was a precocious child, she has never gotten restless like Arthur. She has never paced the halls of the manor aimlessly in winter, bored out of her mind. Despite her position in society disallowing her to do what she would like —namely Arthur’s job—she has never drawn their father’s disapproving eye out of accident. If she receives his disapproval, it is because she welcomes it. She has an uncanny ability to perform her duties to perfection. At least that was true until this farce of a trip to America. This is the first time she has ever been shown to chafe at the expectations of her.

Arthur has chafed for so long that he sometimes feels as though he’s been rubbed raw and bleeding.

He sighs and replaces the copy of Huckleberry Finn on the bookshelf. He hasn’t found a single volume in this collection that has been able to hold his interest for longer than five minutes. Maybe he should take up smoking. His father always disapproved of it, calling it a low habit, but at least rolling tobacco might give him something to do with his hands. 

He glances at his watch and nearly sags with relief when he sees the time. He and Morgana have never spent this many meals in a row together since they were children sharing a schoolroom, but at least lunching with her will be a distraction from the unease growing in his stomach. There is just something about being stuck here with nowhere to go that makes Arthur agitated. There is nothing but kilometers of open sky stretching above his head, but the ocean ensures he does not stray from the ship. He feels, he thinks dramatically, a bit like Tantalus of the Greek myths. The freedom the sky promises is held just out of reach. 

He really needs to eat something before he leaves this ship attempting to become the next MacNeice or Spender.

“I heard you were bullying the steward after all.” Is the first thing Morgana says when he sits at their table for lunch.

Arthur sighs, and takes a mental note to start tallying how often Morgana makes him sigh these days, “I was not bullying. I was joking.”

Morgana narrows her eyes at him dangerously and even though she has been looking at him that way since she was five and he was nine, it still unnerves him. There has always been hell to pay after one of those looks unless Arthur does something to immediately rectify the situation. One time, he had accidentally torn the hem of her new dress when she was ten, and he woke up the next day to find himself locked in his room despite the key being lost during their grandfather’s time. It had taken three hours before the local locksmith was able to arrive at the house and get him out. 

Arthur got his own back for such pranks. The most memorable time was when he put sawdust in her makeup and she spent the next day sneezing. Despite their childhood antagonism, neither of them ratted out the other to their father. Their war waged silently on, and if anyone else tried to be unkind to the other, they were there to put a stop to it. It was a strange sense of loyalty built on a foundation of growing up in the same house under their father’s strict adherence to rules. 

“I hardly think calling him incompetent is a good joke, Arthur.” Morgana retorts just as he expected, “Just because he is not a member of the peerage doesn’t mean he is unworthy of your respect.”

“You’ve been reading pamphlets again.” Arthur accuses.

“I like to be informed of others’ points of view.” Morgana says primly as she removes her gloves and hat. They’re both black to match the trim around the collar of her dress, some blue thing that Arthur has never seen her wear around the estate. She probably had it made special for the trip.

“I am only retaliating against the comments against me when we first met. Nothing more, nothing less.” Arthur defends himself, “I haven’t reverted back to being a fifteen year old brat who thought it was alright to yell at staff.”

“Well, stop the retaliation. Even if it doesn’t upset this Mr. Emrys, it upsets Gwen.”

“You do know that I am your _older_ brother? I should be the one pestering you.”

“I think if you pestered me on anything other than trying to make nice with the bores Father brings over for his dinner parties, the world would begin to rotate backwards.”

Arthur snorts a bit to himself, “You’re probably right. What are you getting?”

“Haven’t decided.” she says as she picks up the menu, “The sandwich sounds as though it might be good.”

Arthur hums noncommittally and looks over the set lunch menu for the day. He supposes he could order off the menu, in fact it is almost expected for people of their caliber to do so. The only problem is that he has no more idea what to order off the menu than what to order on. In curling script on thick cream paper the options read: hot roast beef sandwiches, creamed shrimp and vegetables on toast, or baked cheese soufflé. Plus an assortment of side salads and accompanying drinks. 

Arthur stares at it blankly. It may as well be an advert for earrings for all that he cares about what is written. In the end, he orders the same thing Morgana does. Their tastes usually align anyway.

Once the waiter scurries off with their orders, Morgana’s attention once more lands on him, “So other than harassing a hapless steward, what have you done with your morning?”

“I called to arrange George’s passage home, then spent several hours wandering aimlessly, rejecting books in the library, and considering taking up smoking.”

“You know what Father thinks about smoking.”

“We’ve both been subjected to the lectures, spare me.” Arthur says and it makes Morgana smile a little, “What did you get up to?”

“I spent a riveting amount of time in the drawing room discussing the relative merits of bringing lace back into fashion.” Morgana says dryly.

It’s Arthur’s turn to smile, “And you let them get away with it? You must be losing your edge.”

“I was told that I have to make a good impression on everyone in case they bring useful marriage offers after I am presented.” Morgana says, doing a credible impression of their father. 

“I am sure you’ve had more luck in that regard than I have. I spent nearly three hours with Lord Deorham last night, and I think all I succeeded in doing was convincing him that I am a clueless fool.”

“Arthur, you _are_ a clueless fool.”

“Very funny.” 

The waiter returns with their drinks and food then. Apparently they ordered the cheese soufflés. Well, it is as good as anything to eat when the constant rocking of the ship makes him feel like he is going cross eyed. He digs his spoon into the dish, and fragrant cloud of steam wends its way from deep inside. Across from him, Morgana does the same. They eye each other, silently daring the other to try it first. In the end they try at the same time, and it isn’t quite as good as the dishes served at home, but it is certainly much better than what the older passenger liners boasted as first class fair.

After lunch, Arthur makes another valiant attempt at the library. He actually manages to get halfway through a book on ancient farming techniques before he starts to go mad again. He politely returns the book to the shelf, and decides to finally give in and go for a walk. 

He exits main hall on portside, and steps out onto the teakwood deck. Strange to think that three days ago, he was just leaving England and was getting into his first disagreement with Mr. Emrys. He didn’t think it possible that so much could change when he was suck in one location. Remembering Mr. Emrys, make shim remember George. In all the excitement Arthur had forgotten to check in on him. He’s fairly certain he can’t actually visit the Isolation ward, but perhaps he could ask one of the doctors if George’s condition has changed at all. He remembers that there was a doctor’s office on starboard side of A Deck, so perhaps he could ask one of them to check on George for him. He resolves to find out after dinner.

Walking the Promenade deck isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. No one spots him and comes rushing up to him trying to ingratiate themselves or offer up a meeting with their daughters once Arthur returns to England. If Morgana ever found out about this concern, she would mock him endlessly and tell him he was getting too full of himself, but considering he has already had one of his father’s associates do the very thing Arthur was hoping to avoid, he thinks his concern is well founded. 

The fresh air helps settle some of the agitation he’s been feeling all day. The ocean is calmer in this section and the boat doesn’t rock nearly as violently. It allows him to take a pleasant stroll to pass the time before dinner. Walking in a circle, no matter how large, does get a bit repetitive and boring, but at least it is something to do. It satisfies some deep part of him that is never at rest unless he is at work, and lets some of the tension he has been carrying in his shoulders since they left Camelot release. He might actually get more than a couple of hours of sleep tonight.

Mr. Emrys is waiting for him when he goes down to change just as George always does. He has one pair of trousers draped over the end of the bed, and he is holding a jacket in his other hand, frowning at it contemplatively the way one might stare at a particularly confounding piece of machinery. It’s amusing to think that fashion confounds Mr. Emrys in the same way tractors and automobiles confound others. It reminds Arthur of their distinct positions in society, and he decides to take what Morgana and Guinevere said in stride. As irritating as he might find Mr. Emrys, he also has no desire to spend the last leg of his journey at odds with the man trying to help him.

“That jacket will do.” Arthur says as he closes the door to his suite behind him.

Mr. Emrys looks up and offers him a tentative smile, “Are you sure? Haven’t worn it before, or it got packed by mistake and it is specifically for Easter dinner?”

“It will do well enough.” Arthur promises with a little smile that he can’t quite hide, “Do I really strike you as someone who would let himself be embarrassed just to spare your feelings?”

“No. You seem more like the type to trample all over other’s feelings if you though it the right thing to do.” Mr. Emrys says cheerfully, “Go on then, start changing so we can get this on you and I can get back to my other duties.”

Arthur unbuttons his jacket and starts sliding it down his arms, “Have they not given you time away to do this?”

Mr. Emrys takes the jacket and hangs it neatly like Guinevere probably showed him, “No. We wouldn’t have enough staff if that was the case. As soon as you go to dinner I’m going to track down Ms. Smith and have her teach me how to pack trunks so I can start packing tonight. If I try to do it all at once when we’re trying to get everything prepared for docking three days from now, I’ll leave too many people with too many extra duties.”

“I’m sure George has a very specific way of packing things, because he has a very specific way of packing everything,” Arthur confides, “but don’t bother fussing too much. I don’t want to keep you from your duties any longer than need be.”

Mr. Emrys holds up a clean shirt just as Arthur manages to rid himself of his day shirt. He blinks in surprise and slides his arms into it with ease. Apparently Mr. Emrys took whatever lessons Guinevere gave to heart. Just manages to get his cufflinks clasped properly, Mr. Emrys holds up the dinner jacket. It’s like they’ve been working at this together for years instead of less than a day.

“You’ve gotten better at this since this morning.” Arthur says, unable to keep the note of surprise out of his voice.

Mr. Emrys smiles at him with amused little crinkles around his eyes, “Careful, that was almost a compliment.”

“Despite what Guinevere might have told you, I am actually capable of noting a job well done.”

“I am sure you are, Sir.” Mr. Emrys says, making sir sound like an insult.

Arthur really shouldn’t find that as funny as he does.

*

He meets Morgana outside her room and eyes her dress wearily. If their father saw it, Arthur would probably inherit the estate a lot sooner than planned. It is a red cotton thing, short sleeved with a white color. Normally that wouldn’t be terribly scandalous in itself, but the cotton is thin enough to be sheer, and the lining only comes to the tops of Morgana’s knees. That much leg is going to cause a stir, and no doubt that is what Morgana wants. If she can garner herself a reputation for being wild, then their father’s schemes to marry her off will have a much harder time going through.

Knowing that, Arthur decides to do nothing about it. As much as he might try to work in step with their father, he is no more eager for Morgana to get married than she is. As long as she doesn’t do anything to truly damage her reputation, he will let sleeping dogs lie.

Morgana does that thing where she smiles and one is met with the chilling sensation that she just read one’s mind. Then she hooks her hand in Arthur’s elbow and allows herself to be escorted down to the dining room. Arthur pretends not to notice the men, and several women, who turn to watch her approach. They are all aware that she is travelling with her brother, so not too many rumors will abound, although Arthur does not doubt that there will be plenty of muttering questioning how he could let her get away with such a frock.

They settle at their table, and being perusing their menus. Less than ten minutes later, Lord Deorham materializes next to their table. He smiles smarmily at Morgana, and takes her hand to press a kiss to the back of it. Morgana sends Arthur a vaguely repulsed look, and he send her an apologetic one in return. He thought his acquaintance with Deorham ended last night after three hours of couched financial talk. Apparently he was wrong.

“Lord Arthur, Lady Morgana,” he says in such a polite way it sets Arthur’s teeth on edge, “I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce my daughter Lady Margaret.”

Lady Margaret steps out from behind her father, and smiles shyly at both of them. Her red hair is frizzy though she has obviously made some attempt to tame it, and her dress sits awkwardly on her form like she isn’t used to wearing the style. With a sinking sensation, Arthur realizes just what is about to happen.

“It is good to see you again.” Lady Margaret says in tremulous voice, “It’s been a long time.”

Arthur is fairly certain that he only met her once, and that was when he was twelve, but he smiles as charmingly as he can manage and tries not to let the horror show when she blushes three sheds of red.

“It is good to see you again as well.” 

“I thought perhaps it was time for the two of you to reacquaint yourselves.” Lord Deorham says grandly, “Why don’t you join us for dinner tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Arthur says quickly, but to no avail.

Lord Deorham waves his hand in the air like he’s trying to physically remove Arthur’s attempt at rejection from between them, “Nonsense. No intrusion. You will join us tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.”

When they are out of ear shot, Morgana leans in close, flutters her eyelashes, and says in a terrifyingly good imitation, “It was good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

Arthur kicks her shin under the table even though he laughs.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur is exceedingly glad that no one actually has the ability to read minds. It means his internal whining and predictions of doom will go unnoticed by others. He is well aware considering throwing himself from the highest deck of the ship in order to get out of dinner would be more than a touch dramatic, especially because he would meet a cold and watery end in the ocean currents below. Still, privately, he can think that death would be preferable to having to sit through dinner with Lord Deorham and Lady Margaret. 

He has a talent for heading off proposals and courting at the pass, but that doesn’t make the build up to those suggestions any less painful to sit through. There are moments when he wants nothing more to jump up and bellow about never marrying, and certainly never marrying someone his father would approve of. He might be disowned, but at least he would be free of the endless chase to find a wife and settle down with an heir to keep the Pendragon line going. Morgana is not the only one who dreams of rebelling, she just doesn’t care what their father thinks and therefore lets everyone know that she scorns him utterly.

Arthur would do the same if he could, but he’s had too many years under his father’s thumb. He could never rebel the way Morgana could, not without a great deal of personal consequence. So he accepts his fate; rejecting each and every that tries her hand. He wouldn’t mind the thought of marriage so much if he was allowed to pick his own partner, but that is apparently too much say in his own life, his father might literally prefer Arthur dead than married for love.

Arthur stares at the artwork hanging over his bed, lost in thought. It displays four ducks in flight, and the whole thing is made from intricately carved pieces of different colored wood. Morbidly, he wonders how many trees died just to make this artwork about nature. 

“You seem tense.” Mr. Emrys says, holding out a clean shirt to Arthur.

Arthur startles, dragged from his musings, “How would you know? We’ve only known each other for a few days.”

Mr. Emrys mutters something under his breath that Arthur doesn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, though, it didn’t sound English. Before he gets a chance to question it, Mr. Emrys shoves the shirt at him again, forcing Arthur to take it or risk getting smacked in the chest for his troubles. For someone meant to be living a life of passenger service, Mr. Emrys has some of the most appalling manners Arthur has ever experienced. It’s almost a little endearing.

“I was just trying to be friendly.” Mr. Emrys says waspishly and turns to dig a jacket out of the wardrobe. 

“I have to do something rather painful.” Arthur says by way of explanation when Mr. Emrys returns with the jacket.

Mr. Emrys holds the jacket open, and Arthur slides his arms inside easily. He is once more struck by how smoothly the routine of dressing is considering Mr. Emrys only learned the trade a few days ago, and Arthur has been in a sour mood more or less since arriving on board.

“What is it?” Mr. Emrys asks as Arthur turns around and starts tugging his sleeves straight in readiness for cufflinks.

“What is what?” Arthur asks absently, focused on getting the seam of the shirt sleeve to lay straight.

“What is it you don’t want to do?”

“I have been invited to dinner with a friend of my father’s.”

“That doesn’t seem so terrible.” Mr. Emrys says as he hands over the cufflinks.

Arthur’s face crinkles in irritation before he can stop himself, “Lord Deorham is possibly the most boring person on the Earth. I had drinks with him and I thought I would truly die of old age before he finished speaking.”

Mr. Emrys stifles a snort and tries to look composed, “Maybe you could make a game out of counting everything irritating he does.”

“What would be the point of that?”

“You could always tell me when you arrived back to change into your nightclothes,” Mr. Emrys says with a little shrug, “watching you get irritated is good fun.”

“Is that why you’ve been such a hassle since we met?”

“It’s one of my many gifts.”

“What would you suggest I do about his daughter who will also be there?” Arthur asks, finding himself smiling despite the fact he should be offended by Mr. Emrys speaking ill of his social superiors. 

“Make her talk to your sister.”

“Morgana hasn’t been invited, lucky witch.”

“Oh. Count the number of times she flutters her eyelashes at you hoping that will somehow make you cave and propose on the spot?” Mr. Emrys suggests brightly.

Arthur shakes his head, going for disapproving but probably coming out amused, “That would be insulting to the lady.”

“I’ve given you options. It’s on you if you don’t heed my advice.”

“Is there a chance you could have a bath waiting for me for when I get back?”

“Going to drown yourself for real if you can’t drown yourself in drink?”

“That is very dark.”

“Sorry, you get used to it after a time.” Mr. Emrys says, unrepentant, “What time shall I prepare your bath?”

“Let’s say two hours from now, and pray that a bath is a good enough excuse to leave the table before I get pulled into after dinner drinks again.”

“Salt water or fresh?”

“Pardon?” Arthur asks, thoroughly confused.

“For the bath.” Mr. Emrys responds, “Have you not looked at the taps?”

Arthur places his hands on his hips, “I’ve had one or two more important things on my mind than looking at bath taps.”

“We have a limited amount of fresh water, so we ask our guests to bathe in sanitary slat water. Of course, as a first class guest you have a choice between the two. If it helps, salt is meant to be good for the skin.”

“Salt will be fine.”

“Shall I turn on the electric towel rack as well?”

“Are you just trying to make me forget that in a few minutes I’m to be paraded in front of a lord and lady like a piece of livestock?” Arthur accuses.

Mr. Emrys smiles a little, making him appear impish and free, “Maybe.”

“I better go, if I’m so much as a minute late it will be taken as a personal slight.” Arthur says and looks himself over in the mirror one last time. He looks as presentable as he’s going to get, “Wish me luck.”

“Try not to drink too much.” Is what Mr. Emrys says instead, “If you’re this much of a bear while you’re in good health, I don’t want to know what you’re like hungover.”

“Just the encouragement I needed.” 

He holds his arms out for final inspection put of habit. He’s always done so with George because George frets about making sure Arthur is presented at his best. Mr. Emrys, however, fixes Arthur with a confused look and sort of shrugs. His hands bobble in the air helplessly, indicating that as far as he’s concerned Arthur looks just fine, but what does he know about fashion?

Arthur drops his arms, lets out an irritated huff, and exits his room. He briefly considers pounding on Morgana’s door and dragging her kicking and screaming with him down to the dining room. She is taking dinner service in her room tonight, so he knows that she’s in. At least if she came along some of the attention would be on her, and he could maybe take a bite of his food without it being overanalyzed as to his suitability as a husband. The only reason he doesn’t is because he knows that she’s going to have to spend the next few months doing the same thing. They are getting on so well at the moment, out from under their father’s watchful eye, that Arthur can’t quite bring himself to interrupt what last little drags of fun she can manage before seasoning. 

When he arrives in the dining room, he scans the crowd for any sign of is dinner companions. He’s just wondering if he can get away with saying he arrived but could not find them, and therefore end the evening before it even began, when a waiter appears at his elbow. He’s close to Arthur’s father in age, but with dark hair and a blading spot. 

He dips his head respectfully, “Lord Pendragon, Lord Deorham sent me to get you.”

Arthur sighs and hitches a warm smile on his face, “Thank you very much. I’ll join them right away.”

The waiter nods, and leads Arthur through the maze of tables holding all the other first class passengers. Other members of the wait staff flit around the tables as well, but never once is their collision. They appear to work in perfect unison, like they all share a mind and are able to communicate instructions to one another non-verbally. It sounds like something straight out of a novel.

Lord Deorham stands to greet him when he arrives, and Arthur shakes hands with him. He understands why Morgana was so repulsed now. It wasn’t just that Lord Deorham’s behavior was ill received, it is also that there is something physically unpleasant about touching him. It’s like his schemes leak from the very pores of his skin. 

Arthur bends low and presses a polite kiss to Lady Margaret’s hand. She once again blushes several deep shades of red, and Arthur once again considers abandoning ship in order to get out of this. The hopeful daydream of commandeering a lifeboat and setting off to sea never to be seen again is dashed by the arrival of another waiter. Left with no other option, Arthur takes his seat and orders the first thing on the menu. 

When all their orders are placed, Lord Deorham turns to him with a smile that Arthur can only describe as predatory, “It has been many years since my daughter and I both had the chance to dine with you, Lord Arthur.”

“It has. I am sure Lady Morgana would have been glad of another woman at my father’s dinners to keep her company.” Arthur lies. Morgana dislikes everyone except for himself and Guinevere, and sometimes he teeters on the brink between her affection and her derision. Actually, come to think of it, Morgana has always had a soft spot for their cousin Leon. The bond they formed as children bloomed into something like friendship. Guinevere is the favorite out of all of them by far, however. 

“It’s been, what, nearly fifteen years since you and Lady Margaret had the good fortune to see one another?”

“I believe the last time I saw you both together was around my twelfth birthday.” Arthur answers politely.

“And you’re twenty-five now?”

“Yes.”

“You grew up to be quite the young man, or so I hear from your father.”

Arthur hums noncommittally and takes a sip of water to avoid answering. He gives into Mr. Emrys’ advice. There is no way he’s going to get through this if he’s only sitting here. He begins racking up a tally of all the annoying things that Lord Deorham says. Just in this one exchange, the tally is already up to three. Lady Margaret gazes at him adoringly from across the table, and Arthur silently adds a tally to the other list Mr. Emrys suggested. He does feel a bit bad for Lady Margaret. It isn’t her fault that she is put into the position of trying to make him court her, nor is it her fault that Arthur is immune to anyone who he does not already care for in some degree or fashion.

“You know, I do believe Lady Margaret has pined after you since you played together during that visit.” Lord Deorham says patronizingly, and Lady Margaret shoots her a father a wide eyed desperate look, apparently under the impression that secret was safely locked away, “Your father mentioned to me when we last spoke that you are not courting anyone?”

“I’ve been focused on helping my father to run the estate.” Arthur says, feeling as hysterical as Lady Margaret looks.

Lord Deorham inclines his head, “Of course. Important work. It is good to see a young man take life so seriously. You will make a good lord upon your father’s passing.”

“Let us hope that the time of my inheritance is still many years away.” _If it comes at all._

“Of course.” Lady Margaret interjects before her father can continue down the path of trying to get Arthur to court her, “I’m sure my father didn’t mean it that way.”

“Quite right. I only meant that Camelot is one of the healthier estates in this economy, and that puts you in the enviable position of having your pick of young women to court. I’m sure your father would approve of you and Lady Margaret rekindling a childhood friendship.”

Arthur adds three more tallies to his mental list. He genuinely considers praying for divine intervention, promising to actually go to church on Sundays instead of taking the opportunity to walk the estate. He could perhaps be a reverend. Then he would not be expected to marry, and his father could garner all sorts of sympathy for his only son choosing the church over family. Leon would make a good lord of the estate.

“I’m sure he would, but unfortunately I am much too busy to consider rekindling a friendship of any kind.” Arthur says politely.

Across from him, Lady Margaret looks a bit like she’s praying for divine intervention herself. Arthur feels an odd sense of kinship with her in this moment. Lord Deorham has been very careful to avoid stating outright that Arthur should take interest in Lady Margaret, and therefore has prevented himself from being rude. He tiptoes to the brink of impropriety, and Lady Margaret is the one who has to suffer for it. He wonders why Lord Deorham is so desperate to get her married off. He must either not think very highly of her ability to attract suitors of her own, or he must be in ill health. Arthur hopes for the latter, then winces and sends an apology into the ether so as not to incur any cosmic ill wishes sent his way in retribution.

“A practical approach,” Lord Deorham praises, “but it does seem a shame to waste this chance. You know, we had reservations at the A la Carte Dining Room for tomorrow night, but perhaps you could join us then as well.”

“The reservation is only for two.” Lady Margaret reminds her father. 

The relief Arthur experiences in response to that is nearly enough to make courting Lady Margaret tolerable. She isn’t terrible looking, and she is clearly quite kind hearted. Still, they had nothing in common at age twelve, and he doubts any of that has changed in the last few years. 

Temporary insanity passed, Arthur jumps back into the ring to defend himself from spending another night dining with Lord Deorham, “And I already agreed to have dinner with my sister tomorrow. She’s a bit nervous about seasoning in the states.” 

It would be more accurate to say that Morgana is feeling murderous about the upcoming seasoning, but this excuse will do. He may owe her a new dress or new gloves or something for implying that she was a mortal who get nervous, but it will be worth the expense.

“I suppose trying to accommodate two extra people at a table for two would be a bit much.” Lord Deorham admits, “Very well, then join us there after our meal when it opens up for the evening. The Starlight Roof Night Club is meant to be a good deal of fun.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense. Bring your sister as well. Your father says she’s a very confident young lady, and I think Lady Margaret could stand her influence.”

“I suppose I could ask Lady Morgana if she would be in the mood to dance.”

He dismisses himself at exactly two hours, having barely touched his dinner. Mr. Emrys is waiting for him when he returns, and Arthur entertains the notion of dropping to his knees and weeping at the sight of a friendly face. Or, if not friendly, at least one not out to get something from him.

“Did you run a bath?” he asks hopefully.

“I did.” 

“Thank god. You can go, I would hate for you to be accused of murder after I drown myself.”

Mr. Emrys smiles in the way that crinkles his entire face and chuckles; a deep warm sound. It eases some of the tension from Arthur’s shoulders. 

“That bad?” he asks as he comes forward to help Arthur out of his dinner jacket.

Arthur slides his arms out when prompted, “I lasted all of thirty seconds before giving in and starting a tally of irritating things he said.”

“What did you get up to?”

“I lost count around seventy.”

Mr. Emrys grimaces, “I see why you want to drown yourself now.” 

Arthur removes the cufflinks from his shirt and passes them over, “That isn’t even the worst part. I somehow got roped into escorting his daughter to the Starlight Roof club tomorrow night.”

“Don’t like to dance?”

“Don’t try to be clever.” Arthur grumbles.

Mr. Emrys doesn’t even bother to apologize this time, “Couldn’t you say that you felt it would be inappropriate to be alone with her before you even began courting her?”

“He suggested I bring my sister, and knowing her, she’s going to agree to go just to make my life more difficult.”

“Isn’t that sort of the primary duty of younger sibling?”

“I have a feeling you have siblings of your own, after that.” Arthur asks, finding himself genuinely curious about the answer.

“Not really. Just my friend Will. My mother practically raised him, and we fought the entire time, but he still dove in to wallop anyone who tried to tease me.”

“Close enough to brothers then,” Arthur agrees, “though I bet you never had to escort Will on a trip to show him off as suitable to court.”

Mr. Emrys chuckles again and glances over his shoulder at Arthur, “The day Will is suitable to court, is the day I eat my hat.” 

Arthur finds himself laughing too. He may never have met this Will, but there’s something about the way Mr. Emrys discusses people that invites one in. It fills Arthur with a warmth he can’t explain.


	6. Chapter 6

“Try not to look so dour.” Morgana whispers as they mount the stairs from the Promenade Deck to the Sun Deck.

Light from the Starlight Roof Nightclub pours through the tall rectangular windows that look put across the stern of the ship. Patches of gold shine onto the deck, illumination it in a blaze of cheer. Even though they are walking towards a place that is presumably for joy and merrymaking, Arthur can’t help but feel a bit like he’s being marched to an executioner. 

He has always been a fairly good dancer, so that aspect of the evening will be fun at least. The company, however, will leave much to be desired. He holds no ill will towards Lady Margaret, but it seems rather dishonest to dance with her if he has no intention of ever declaring himself her suitor. He supposes it isn’t really his fault either, Lord Deorham was the one to push this meeting between them despite Arthur’s polite objections. Still, it puts both himself and Lady Margaret in the impossible position of having to pretend to enjoy each other’s company.

He tilts his head back towards the sky, even as Morgana takes him by the elbow and steers him towards the club. The stars are obscured by the thick black smoke issuing from the smoke stacks ahead of him. He vaguely recalls someone saying they were tilted at a certain angle to give the impression of speed, despite being the fastest ship in the world at the moment. He feels a strange sense of camaraderie with the ship then. He may not have literal smoke stacks, but this whole ritual of presentations and courting and suitors and engagements, is all to give them the look of wealth, despite everyone involved being the wealthiest society has to offer.

Morgana guides him up the wooden steps to the open doors of the club, and is forced to balance on his arm as she steps over the high threshold. Right now the sea is relatively calm, the rocking not quite as aggressive as Arthur has more or less gotten used to. The deck is dry, but he noticed the raised thresholds all across the ship, and he has the feeling that the waves must get high enough in rough weather to get the outer decks wet. The thresholds must be designed to keep the water from getting inside, and this club being at the top is in the most danger of flooding if it gets truly choppy, hence the higher threshold. It doesn’t make it any easier to help Morgana get inside without her tripping over either her dress or the threshold itself.

The band is in full swing when they enter, and the rubolium floor is filled with dancers. The sides of the room, built in a semicircle like the cocktail lounge down below, are a mix of people dancing, and people sitting on the few available chairs to take a breath or sip a drink. Strangely enough, there is wall to wall black carpeting. Nowhere else has Arthur spotted wall to wall carpeting onboard. Behind the band, set in their neat little round behind an illuminated etched glass balustrade depicting a musical staff, is a large mural that take up the wall depicting circus performers mid act. He can make out a witch, a ballerina, and possibly a snake charmer.

Morgana starts to slip away, probably intending on leaving him to find Lady Margaret, but Arthur grabs her hand before she can go. He swoops her into the first steps of a swing dance. It may not protect him for long, but the longer he dances with Morgana, the less time he has to spend dancing with Lady Margaret when she finally materializes. He knows he isn’t lucky enough to avoid her forever, but maybe he can hold her off long enough that he can dance two dances with her, complain of a headache or tiredness, and leave. It may not be the manliest of excuses, but he will take a wounded pride over having to dance with a young woman he has no interest in, until the wee hours of the morning. According to Morgana, people have been known to dance until breakfast.

Morgana sends him a knowing looks as she follows his lead, and Arthur glares back at her. He doesn’t care how transparent his motivations are, the two of them are meant to be each other’s greatest allies against their father. It isn’t fair for her to forget just to see him squirm. If word gets back to their father about Arthur spending any amount of time with Lady Margaret, there will be engagement announcements before Arthur even has a chance to learn her middle name. He would, and has, done the same for Morgana if she needed him to. She owes him.

Apparently his glare must translate some of that, because she rolls her eyes and throws herself into the dance with abandon. Her skirt swirls around her shins like a dervish, and she nearly takes another dancing couple out with her elbow in her enthusiasm. It’s a shame that she didn’t manage it, if she had it would have inevitably concluded the evening as Arthur would have been forced to work out reparations for injury and bloodstains. He isn’t that lucky.

The first song comes to an end, and all the dancers stop to applaud politely. Just the one dance was enough for some of Morgana’s dark hair to escape its elaborate up do. Little fly away hairs float around her head, and combined with the pink of her cheeks, she looks like any other young woman here. She seems happier than Arthur has seen her since their father announced she would be presented to society. Strange to think how trapped they both are by a life they didn’t choose.

“Lord Pendragon!” a familiar feminine voice calls out, and Arthur physically tenses.

Morgana smirks at him and tries to pull away as Lady Margaret approaches. Arthur squeezes her hand tighter, not caring if he’s cutting off the circulation to her fingers. 

“Don’t you dare leave me.” He hisses in an undertone.

Morgana’s smirk gains a devious edge and she extricates her hand, “I would stay, but I believe dancing is only for two people, brother dear.”

“I hate you.” Arthur whispers, and fixes Lady Margaret with a friendly smile when she reaches the two of them, “Lady Margaret, I was wondering when I would run into you.”

Lady Margaret giggles like Arthur just said something extremely funny, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “You two looked very fetching out there.”

“My brother is a marvelous dancer,” Morgana says earnestly, “you will be in good hands.”

“As long as you want to dance with me, of course.” Lady Margaret fixes him with a hopeful look, fluttering her eyelashes. Away from her father, her confidence apparently increases a fair bit. Arthur wants to be happy for her, but he’s the one suffering for it.

He holds his hand out to her, pretending to be overjoyed to have the pleasure of her company, “It _is_ why I came. How could I say no to such a wonderful offer?”

Lady Margaret giggles again, and slips her gloved hand into his. It’s smaller and far more delicate than Morgana’s. Then again, Lady Margaret probably didn’t insist on learning to do all the physical activities her brothers do like Morgana did. It isn’t a fair comparison.

The opening notes of a song start once more, and Arthur takes up the lead. When he is sure that Lady Margaret is thoroughly distracted, he scans the crowd above her head until he can spot Morgana. He refrains from making a rude gesture in polite company, but scowls at her as fearsomely as he can manage. Morgana, positioned against the balustrade with a cocktail already in hand, just smiles guilelessly at him. He silently schemes to put a spider in her bed. Nothing like a sister to make you ten years old again.

The song ends hours later, and Arthur draws away from Lady Margaret, hoping one dance will be enough to satisfy her. There aren’t any dance cards because this isn’t a formal function, but surely the unspoken rule about dancing with as many people as possible so as not to appear rude still applies. Unfortunately, she gazes up at him with those wide hopeful eyes once more, and Arthur finds himself subjected to another three songs worth of dancing, before she claims to be thirsty and exits the floor to take a break.

Morgana takes her place, slotting herself into Arthur’s arms before he can get a moment to breathe, “You two looked very fetching out there.”

“If you’re going to keep doing impressions, perhaps you should look for a career in radio or the stage.” Arthur grumbles.

“You love dancing.” Morgana says with false innocence.

“From this moment on, you are disowned as my sister. I no longer recognize you as my own blood.”

“How very medieval.”

“Morgana.” Arthur says darkly.

Morgana grins at him, pleased as a cat who got the cream, “Now now, I’ve come to rescue you. If you keep being such a cow about it, perhaps I should leave you to your fate.”

“How exactly to you intend on rescuing me?”

“Just before this song ends, I shall twist my ankle very badly, and you will be forced to heroically help me limp my way back to my room so that I can recuperate.”

“You better be serious about this.” Arthur warns, “If you’re not, I’m never speaking to you again.”

“At least some good would come of it.” Morgana jokes, “Besides, have I ever let you down?”

“Constantly and with great joy.” Arthur responds as they turn away from each other for the next few steps of the foxtrot.

“Fine. Have I ever let you down when I promised specifically to do something?”

“No.”

“Be prepared to catch me in three, two, one.” Morgana counts down. Just after one, she lets out a remarkably loud and realistic gasp of pain and staggers sideways into Arthur. Arthur’s arms dart out automatically and wrap around her before she can fall.

The song ends, and Morgana drapes herself dramatically across his shoulder, and hobbles off the floor. Her face is creased with pain, and Arthur considers suggesting seriously that she become an actress. It might bring their father great shame, but would be worth it to see her talents utilized. He knows, logically, that she is no way injured, but she is doing such a good job of pretending that she is, he starts to feel worry building in his chest all the same.

Lady Margaret joins them when he helps Morgana sink onto a chair on the edge of the dance floor, “Is she alright?”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Morgana coos, even as her voice is tinted with held back pain, “it’s nothing more serious than a twisted ankle.”

“I knew someone who twisted her ankle so badly that she had to have it bandaged for nearly a month,” Lady Margaret says anxiously, “You don’t think it’s that bad is it?”

“I would feel better if I could get the ship’s doctor to examine it.” Arthur says, sensing his opportunity, “I apologize, Lady Margaret, but I think I have to cut my evening short to make sure my sister is tended to.”

“Of course!” Lady Margaret says earnestly, eyes wide, “You must go.”

“Thank you for understanding.” Morgana says bravely and wobbles to her feet, leaning heavily on Arthur, “You are very kind.”

“You’ll send my regrets to your father?” Arthur asks as he starts helping Morgana to the door.

“Yes. I will. I do hope you feel better, Lady Morgana.”

Morgana smiles at her, looking like she is gravely wounded but determined not let it show, and Arthur maneuvers them out of the door. Morgana continues to lean on him until the reach the bottom of the stairs on the Promenade Deck, then extricates herself from Arthur. She straightens her dress, smooths down her hair, and sands Arthur another pleased smirk.

“You’re welcome.” She says, sounding like a fairy bestowing a great boon upon someone.

“You are going to probably have to walk with a limp for the rest of your time here.” Arthur reminds her, “Otherwise she’ll catch onto your scheme.”

“Nonsense. We arrive in port tomorrow afternoon. She will be far too busy to exit her rooms. Even if she does, I can always say I overindulged and the pain seemed worse than it was.”

“Have you considered being a spy? With skills like that you would be well sought after.” Arthur asks as they start down the deck to the main staircase to get to their rooms.

“Father might have a heart attack if I went into government work.”

“He was a military man, I think the attack would only be a small one.”

They joke like that all the way back to their rooms. Arthur’s is quiet and empty when he enters, and he reaches out for the switch next to his bed to activate the call light for a steward. If nothing else, he can always ask them to fetch Mr. Emrys for him.

He opens the door at the knock, and is relieved to see Mr. Emrys already standing there. He takes one look at Arthur, and visibly presses his lips together to keep from smiling at the sight Arthur makes. He must have set aside his cap somewhere for the evening, and Arthur, in his exhaustion, finds himself strangely fascinated by the waviness of Mr. Emrys’ hair.

“That bad?” he asks.

“I think I would rather shove a pin in my eye than listen to her laugh again.” Arthur answers, leaning heavily against the door frame. 

“You need a drink.”

“I need the whole bottle.”

“Stay right here.” Mr. Emrys orders, then turns and jogs down the corridor to the main staircase before Arthur can point out that technically Mr. Emrys is in no position to tell Arthur to do anything. All social faux pas are forgiven when he returns several moments later with a bottle tucked under one arm. 

“Where did you get that?” Arthur asks incredulously as he steps aside to let Mr. Emrys into the room.

“The cocktail lounge.” Mr. Emrys answers and sets it on the dressing table, and produces a glass from his pocket, “You’ll have a bit of a bill in the morning, but our motto is first class unsurpassed service. On a scale of one to ten, how miserable was it?”

“Twenty.” Arthur admits, “My sister had to pretend to twist her ankle in order to rescue me.”

“Jesus, and I though the engineers hated the club.” Mr. Emrys chuckles, and starts helping Arthur strip out of his jacket.

“Why would the engineers hate it?” 

“France was building a ship at the same time as this one, and England couldn’t let itself be shown up by France having the largest ship in the world. In order to win, they stuck the engineer’s quarters right on top of the club. Lancelot complains of it constantly.”

They fall into silence after that as Arthur considers the ridiculousness of depriving employees of a good night’s rest in order to have a bigger ship. It sounds like something his father would do.

Mr. Emrys helps him slip into his dressing gown, and Arthur sits heavily on the end of his bed. As exhausted as he is from having to pretend to enjoy spending time with Lady Margaret, he finds himself unwilling to go to sleep. He just wants a few minutes to wind down, blow off steam.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll go.” Mr. Emrys says, already inching towards the door.

A truly mad idea, most likely brought on by exhaustion, exits Arthur’s moth before he can think better of it, “You know, it’s bad form to leave someone to drink alone. Why don’t you stay?”

Mr. Emrys raises his eyebrows, “Are you sure?”

 _No._ “I can’t drink a whole bottle myself.” Arthur says reasonably.

Mr. Emrys smiles a little and shrugs, “Alright. I can stay for one drink.”

Arthur grins and snatches the bottle from the table as Mr. Emrys sinks to sit cross legged on the area rug at the end of the bed, back against the bottom of the bedframe. When Arthur returns to his original position, he can feel the warmth of Mr. Emrys’ shoulder against his calf, bleeding through the layers of his uniform and through the thin layer of Arthur’s dressing gown. He pours out a measure of amber liquid into the cut glass tumbler that Mr. Emrys brought with him, and hands it to him.

Mr. Emrys takes it, and sends an amused look Arthur’s way, “Not disgusted by drinking after me?”

“I’ll just drink from the bottle.”

“How gentlemanly.”

“Shut up or my offer for a drink is rescinded.” Arthur grumbles.

Mr. Emrys chuckles at that and takes a sip of his drink. He makes a pleased hum at the back of his throat, and cradles the glass carefully in both hands as if afraid of dropping it. It occurs to Arthur that perhaps he is. If Arthur broke the glass, it would make barely a dip into the expense for this trip. If Mr. Emrys breaks it, it would not only cost a good portion of his salary, but could cost him his job as well.

Mr. Emrys stays for more than one drink. Despite their rocky start, there is something about this moment, sitting together in a bedroom onboard a rocking ship, that is soothing. For once, Arthur doesn’t feel the need to live up to any standard that is set for him. He can just relax, and enjoy the company. He could never do this with George, the man is far too proper to even dare it, but Mr. Emrys has shown that he cares very little for social hierarchies. It makes it easier, in a way, to pretend that they could be friends.


	7. Chapter 7

Mr. Emrys steps back, arms crossed against his chest, and smiles down at the last packed trunk. He is slightly out of breath, his jacket abandoned, and his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair sticks up in places from the moment when the trunk didn’t get the latch locked properly, and all of Arthur’s clothes came tumbling down on his head. He cocks his head in Arthur’s direction, a small pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“I think that’s the last of it.”

Arthur fights a losing battle against the urge to grin, “You stripped to your shirt sleeves to pack a trunk, I wouldn’t be so pleased.”

“You would be if you ever had to pack one of these things.” Mr. Emrys says, dusting his hands off on his trousers.

“How do you know I haven’t packed one of these?” Arthur challenges.

Mr. Emrys fixes him with an exasperated look, and Arthur loses the battle against smiling. Only Morgana is ever this free with him, and it really isn’t the same. Sisters are meant to be the ones scorning you, and driving you mad. A steward, no matter a steward on the best ocean liner in the world, is not someone who is meant to display his true thoughts quite so freely.

“Because you stood there like a post when I asked if you knew how to latch the trunk properly.”

“Perhaps I just didn’t feel like helping you.” Arthur suggests, arching an eyebrow.

“So you’re just lazy?” Mr. Emrys retorts, scratching his jaw, “Good to know.”

Arthur lets out a soft chuckle despite himself, and glances away from Mr. Emrys for a moment to try to hide his amusement. Judging by the little crinkles at the corners of Mr. Emrys’ eyes, he was not entirely successful. Ah well, it isn’t like he’s standing in front of his father.

“How long until we reach port?” Arthur asks, deciding to change the subject. 

Mr. Emrys glances down at his watch, “About an hour. They’ve already started reversing the engines to slow us.”

“How can you tell?”

“You can hear it in the pitch of the engines. The reverse engines sound different because they are pushing against momentum instead if creating it.”

“You can hear all that?” Arthur asks incredulously.

Mr. Emrys shrugs, and begins rolling down his sleeves to a far more appropriate length. Arthur has only ever seen the farmers on the estate with their sleeves rolled up, and only when they were working the fields or livestock. Any formal meeting between them to go over numbers, the tenants tend to dress as though they were going to church; somber suits, hats clutched in their hands.

“You start to get the ear for it after a while. I’ve done nearly a hundred of these trips so far.” Mr. Emrys explains, and plucks his jacket from the back of the chair. There is nothing graceful about the way he shrugs it on, but in the same way that Mr. Emrys should be one of the most irritating person Arthur has come across but isn’t, the way he shrugs into his jacket is charming.

Arthur straightens from his position leaning against the wall, and wanders over towards the dresser in the bedroom under the guise of doing a last minute check for socks or ties that might have gone walk about, “If you’ve done a hundred of these, then is it safe to assume you will be here at the end of summer when I return home?”

“As long as the sea hasn’t decided to claim my soul.”

“Claim your soul?” Arthur asks, frowning in Mr. Emrys’ direction, “Are you a pirate from the eighteenth century, now?”

“Sailors are sailors.” Mr. Emrys replies, as if that explains anything about it at all.

It occurs to Arthur that Mr. Emrys is a bit strange. Not just in his total disregard for propriety, but in his general personality. This is far from the first time he has said something completely batty, and Arthur still finds himself responding as if asking questions will make the meaning any clearer than when Mr. Emrys opened his mouth. A strange man indeed.

“You are very strange.” Arthur says out loud.

“And you are very entitled.” Mr. Emrys says as he slides the last button on his jacket into place.

Arthur shakes his head, “My original point was to ask if you would be willing to act as temporary valet on my return trip as my valet will be in England recovering.”

“Are you sure you want _me_? You did just get done saying I was strange.”

“Despite your tendency to spout rubbish, your service wasn’t completely terrible, and you didn’t try to abscond with any of my valuables.” Arthur says, closing the entirely empty drawer he was gazing into to try to keep up the fiction of organization, “I will take trustworthiness over exemplary service any day.”

When he looks up again, Mr. Emrys is regarding him. The emotion is hard to read on his face, but Arthur thinks it hovers somewhere between surprise, pleasure, and amusement, “I should still be here when you return home. If you speak with the purser before you leave, he can probably bring an extra crew member from the Elizabeth on board to make up for it.”

“Then I’ll speak to the purser before I go.”

“See you in September then, Lord Pendragon.”

“Until then, Mr. Emrys.”

With one last impish smile, Mr. Emrys nods, and slips into the bustle of the corridor beyond. Arthur stands alone in his room, unmoving for a few more moments. He considers scouring the room for more of his items, but he’s already done that twice. He knows for a fact that Mr. Emrys has packed every last item Arthur brought on board. To Mr. Emrys’ credit, he didn’t complain once, but more than once Arthur caught him staring at the pile of trunks with a soul deep indignation. If he thought Arthur’s ten trunks were a lot, they were nothing compared to Morgana’s twenty. Arthur often feels as though Guinevere should get a maid of her own just to help her keep up with the extra demands brought on by their travels. 

Satisfied that he has left nothing behind, Arthur wanders down the one flight of stairs to A-Deck, and finds the purser’s desk free of lines. The purser is different than the one who gave them the key to their room that first day, and he looks rather harried. Apparently Mr. Emrys wasn’t exaggerating about the duties involved in preparing to dock.

“Pardon me.” Arthur says to catch the purser’s attention.

The purser looks up from the stacks of pages he was flipping through moments before, stares at Arthur uncomprehendingly for a moment, then smiles as politely as he can and says, “How can I help you, Sir?”

“I was hoping to make arrangements for my return trip to England in September.”

“Of course. I can make a note of your requests.” The purser responds and digs a pen out of his jacket, he produces a fresh sheet of paper from somewhere beneath the desktop, then stands poised to take down Arthur’s request. After a little over four days of Mr. Emrys’ particular brand of service, the speedy response and lack of cavalier attitude is a bit of a shock to the system.

“My valet fell ill while we were travelling,” Arthur explains, “and someone was kind enough to organize a crew member to take over his duties. I was hoping that on my return trip I could work with this crew member again.”

“Of course, Sir, if you could just give me the crew member’s name and position?”

“Mr. Emrys. I believe he normally acts as a steward.”

The purser jots down the request on the piece of paper, “Very good, Sir. I will file the request. To be safe, I would call the company to confirm a week or so before your return trip. While we are normally very well organized, things can get easily lost on a ship this large.”

“Of course.” Arthur agrees easily, “Thank you for your help.”

“You are most welcome, Sir.”

With that, Arthur returns to his rooms. He pokes his head into Morgana’s rooms as he goes and finds, to no one’s surprise, that her trunks are meticulously organized and waiting to offloaded. Guinevere’s ability to wrangle all of Morgana’s clothes into submission is magical. Arthur has no idea how Guinevere keeps any of it straight, let alone puts up with Morgana with good cheer and affection. Surely she can’t be paid enough. Arthur isn’t sure any wage is enough to warrant putting up with Morgana all day every day. He certainly doesn’t attempt to, he spends most of his day at their father’s elbow trying to prove he knows how to run an estate.

The port is a little larger than the one in Southampton. People rush to and fro, shouting and throwing things to be placed on the ship or removed for the passengers. The skyline of New York City rises high above their heads, grey shards poking jaggedly into the sky and getting caught in wisps of clouds. Even the London skyline isn’t so otherworldly. The port even sounds different. The voice are louder, and more harshly accented. The constants are sharper, the vowels flatter.

For the first time, this starts to feel like an adventure instead of a chore.

*

“Lord Arthur!” Mr. Danvers says brightly, and starts down from the steps of his house to greet Arthur and Morgana. 

The countryside of America turned out to be different only in Geography. The hills are shorter, and the grass is different. The weather is a few degrees warmer as well. The upper crust of American society, turned out to be much the same as the nobility of England. They share similar attitudes, and if Arthur has to discuss Roosevelt’s most recent tax plan, or the war in Spain, or how one’s country is fairing in the Olympics half a world away in Germany one more time, he might actually go mad.

Morgana is clearly nearing the end of her wits as well. She has spent the last several months on her best behavior. At this rate she has probably danced with nearly every suitable American man on the continent, and has bit the inside of her cheek bloody to keep herself from being too waspish at dinner. Unfortunately, that means Arthur has been taking the brunt of her irritation. She’s become more intolerable by the day, and he dreads to think what she is going to be like when she debuts to society and is practically required to be on the constant look out for a husband. She has made her attitude regarding men, namely that most are fools, quite clear. After spending so much time in the company of other young men around their ages, Arthur is inclined to agree with her.

Arthur never thought he would long to be home. He has had many a recurring fantasy of simply striding off into the moors in a fit of pique, never to be seen or heard from again. Now, he finds himself longing to return home and get to work. He needs to be ready to run the estate when the time comes, and it has been made quite clear that he is not yet up to the task. At the port, he thought this would be a welcome adventure, a break from his studies. Now, he mostly considers drinking himself into a stupor just so society conversation starts to be interesting. He’s had a headache for an entire season.

“Mr. Danvers.” Arthur greets, shaking Mr. Danvers’ hand. 

Mr. Danvers is a short man. He only comes up to Arthur’s chin, and it gives Arthur the perfect view of his balding spot. He is a sinewy man with a firm handshake that Arthur’s father would approve of. He has been known to be fond of saying you can judge much of man’s character based on his hand shake. Arthur hasn’t the faintest if that is true, but it is advice that sticks in his head nonetheless.

“And you must be Lady Morgana.” Mr. Danvers says with a fatherly smile, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, “A pleasure to have you.”

Morgana bears the hand kiss nobly, though Arthur can see the glint in her eye that hints at her true thoughts on the matter, and smiles as though she’s flattered, “It is very kind of you to take us in.”

“Nonsense. Lord Camelot and I have had dealings in the past, and I am more than happy to host his children.” Mr. Danvers says and waves a few footmen forward to take their trunks, “Your things will be placed in your rooms right away. My cook has whipped up quite the luncheon, but we can always wait for you take your rest. You must be tired from your journey.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur catches Guinevere directing which trunks go where. She notices him looking, and sends him a wry look. They are both thinking that if Morgana had her way, she would have strangled Mr. Danvers to death the moment he opened his mouth, and returned home to England post haste.

“I wouldn’t want to put your cook out. I am more than happy to take Luncheon before we rest. The journey has been long, and I am not sure how long I may need to recover to enjoy the festivities you have planned.”

Arthur bites the inside of his lip to keep from snorting. Morgana isn’t physically tired. She roams the estate nearly as much as Arthur himself, and is in fine form. No, her rest is entirely as fiction. She is just gripping the one excuse offered her to avoid having to spend the afternoon discussing how gauche Picasso is with the women of the house, and milking it for all its worth.

Mr. Danvers is entirely unaware of that fact, and continues to smile at her in that fatherly way, “Of course. It is important to respect others’ time. Luncheon first, then rest.”

Luncheon turns out to be under salted chicken, and over salted salad. Arthur wasn’t even aware that one could salt a salad. Yet here he is, sitting in a high backed mahogany chair, gazing across a pristine white table cloth, and trying to avoid looking at the portrait that hangs over the dining table which pictures a family patriarch with eyes that follow the viewer no matter which way they turn. It is deeply unsettling to look at, especially when trying to swallow over salted salad without gagging. 

Ms. Danvers –Mr. Danvers’ daughter two years Arthur’s junior—has been put in the unfortunate position of sitting next to Arthur. She is quite pretty, in all honesty, with shining gold hair and twinkling brown eyes, but Arthur must have inherited some of the Pendragon stubbornness after all. The very fact that his father would approve of their courtship is enough to make her completely abhorrent to him. After her first few attempts at conversation grind to a halt, she gives up, and Arthur is incredibly grateful. Out of the eight families they have stayed with over the course of the season, this is the seventh to attempt to arrange a match between himself and their daughter. The eighth didn’t only because they didn’t have a daughter to arrange him with.

The sound of footsteps echoes in the hall outside the dining hall for a moment, then a young man steps inside. His hair is dark, his shoulders broad. He probably stands at roughly Arthur’s height. He smiles at the assembled group, and crosses over to the empty chair next to Morgana. His smile isn’t nearly as bright as Mr. Emrys’ was, but it’s still nice all the same. Arthur is just grateful because his head blocks the disturbing portrait on the wall.

“You’ll have to forgive my son, he had some business to conclude in town.” Mr. Danvers says.

“I’m Charles.” he introduces himself, “Am I right in thinking that you are Lady Morgana and Lord Arthur?”

“You are correct.” Morgana says politely when it becomes clear that Arthur isn’t going to respond for either of them.

“Then it is a pleasure to meet you both, I hope we grow to be friends while you’re staying here.”

*

“If you’ll excuse me a moment,” Arthur says desperately, interrupting a rant about Trotskyism from a man who’s name he’s already forgotten, “I should really check on my sister.”

The man grumbles something about trials, and wanders off to harass someone else. Arthur blows out a sigh of relief, and eyes the crowd. The room is overflowing with people, and the music adds to the dull roar of the crowd. He doesn’t see Morgana anywhere, but the number of bodies in the room has increased the temperature in the place to an uncomfortable degree. 

That was something they weren’t told about. American summers are hot, and sticky. Mr. Danvers had informed Arthur that he went more extravagant for this party than usual. Something about it being the last party of the season, and giving the two of them a proper send off. Arthur hopes Mr. Danvers regrets his choices. Arthur has never felt consistently damp, and he can’t wait until he’s back home and is only damp because he was caught in the rain. 

Keeping up the guise of looking for Morgana, he slips out the side door into the garden. He inhales a deep breath, though it doesn’t do much to cool him down. Being away from all the people helps a great deal, but the air outside is damp with heat as well. 

The glow of a cigarette tip catches his eye, and he turns his head. He is somehow not at all surprised to see Morgana hiding on a bench behind a plant, exhaling smoke. Arthur raises an eyebrow at her. She stares back at him, then without a word, slips another cigarette and match book from the little bag she carries around her wrist. She hands both the cigarette and match to Arthur, and Arthur lights up, inhaling even though he’s never cared for smoking. It at least gives him an excuse to stay out here.

“Father wouldn’t approve.” He reminds her of her words on the ship as he exhales.

Morgana shrugs one elegant shoulder and leans back against the brick of the house, eyes half lidded, “Then we shan’t tell him.”


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur never thought the sight of smoke and the shouting of hundreds of men would be a comfort, but four months in America is enough to make one grateful for the strangest things. The port is as bustling as it was when they disembarked at the end of spring. Ships towering high above their heads stand proudly at the dock, discharging smoke into the air. Boxes, trunks, and bags of mail are loaded and unloaded in a pattern well known to the men working, but is unfathomable to the outside observer. The ship they sailed on before stands proud, black, red, and white paint glowing bright in the sunlight. Perhaps that is just due to the relief Arthur experiences at the sight of it, the knowledge that he can finally go home and leave the world of society schmoozing behind. Or at least leave it behind until spring.

Morgana clutches her hat to her head as a gust of wind carries through the port, but her eyes crinkle in a smile instead of annoyance. Her relief is as palpable as his own. They are safe once more, the impending social circuit come spring can be held off for now by stubborn denial. The point is, they are finally finished with parties, polite smiles, and dressing in the latest fashion for the time being. Arthur would go as far as calling it a cause for celebration. Even if he had to return home and get right back to it, at least he would be somewhere with respectable weather.

One of the bellman from the ship rushes down the boarding ramp, and helps Arthur unload what remains of their luggage from the car. It gets loaded onto a bell cart made of gleaming brass. The young bellman smiles eagerly and ushers them forward. The same check in process occurs this time around as well. There is a lot of presenting of tickets, and waiting for the purser to present them with their keys. 

Strangely, the corridors that felt like a cage last time are welcome sight this time around. He finds comfort in the anonymous stretch of brass plaques with letters and numbers, the geometric blocks of color in the rubolium floor, the marquetry panels depicting birds or ships or trees. It is entirely fashionable, and entirely impersonal. There are no family portraits glaring at him, no paintings of questionable taste that he has to pretend to care about because it is the done thing to discuss art in detail even though Arthur has never had an in depth opinion on art in his life. Here, there is nothing to pass judgement on except other people’s clothes, and it is considered rude to do so in good company. He can relax a little, not adhere so strictly to the image his father wants him to portray to the world. There is freedom in the impersonal.

They stop at Morgana’s room to unload her luggage first, then move on to Arthur’s room. The process of unloading his luggage is thankfully much shorter, and he is left alone in his room for the time being. It is the first time he’s actually been alone in four months. If he was so inclined, he could stay here for the entire trip and not be considered rude. Staying with others required him to engage with whatever mindless activity his hosts had planned for the day, whether he enjoyed that activity or not. Now, the world has shifted. The ship was designed to give him as relaxing a trip as he liked, and while he didn’t take full advantage of it the first time, he might do so now just because he can.

There is a knock at his door, and he drags himself from his bedroom into the sitting room to answers it. This time, his suite has been appointed in shades of green. It is a relief he doesn’t get seasick, if he did this would probably only enhance the issue. If he so wished, he could request his room me appointed in a different scheme, but that seems more than a little outlandish.

He swings the door open, and the last of his tension drops from his shoulders as he grins at the person standing on the other side of the door, “I see your soul has not been claimed by the sea.” 

Mr. Emrys grins back at him, smile familiar and bright as sunlight, “I’m still kicking around the place I’m afraid.”

“So they still haven’t cottoned onto your idiocy?”

“You see,” Mr. Emrys says, leaning in as though he’s going to share a secret, blue eyes twinkling with mischief, “I’m only incompetent when it comes to you. I find your exasperation funny.”

“Then prepare to find this afternoon hilarious.” Arthur says and steps aside, “I need my trunks unpacked.”

Mr. Emrys sighs, sounding very put upon for a man who agreed to help Arthur again, and steps into the room. He eyes the trunks, then turns to eye Arthur. “Are you sure you can’t just live out of the trunks? It’s only for four to five days.”

“I think I just heard the sound of George having a heart attack.” 

“Fine. Fine. I’ll help you unpack.”

With that, Mr. Emrys dives into the trunk closest to him. He works methodically, and Arthur watches fascinated as he sorts the clothes into piles. His genuine attempts at organizing are undercut by the fact Arthur has to reprimand him twice for trying to cram too many things into the wardrobe, and almost wrinkling the shirts in the process.

“You could help, you know.” Mr. Emrys suggests, staring at a pair of Arthur’s shoes like they are personally responsible for every horrid thing to happen in the world.

“And miss the show?” Arthur teases.

“At least tell me where your shoes go.”

“Not a clue. George is always updating his system in order to reach maximum efficiency.”

Mr. Emrys tilts his head with a slight frown, adorably confused, “You’re not serious.”

“For once, I am.” Arthur assures, smiling, “He has made it his life’s mission to be the perfect servant.”

“Poor man.” Mr. Emrys says and stashes the shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe, “I can’t imagine building my life just to be the perfect doormat.”

“I do feel compelled to point out that you are putting away another man’s shoes as you speak.”

“But I’m not very good at it.” 

“That’s true.”

Mr. Emrys turns his head to shoot Arthur a mildly offended look. Arthur just smirks back. After four months of being unfailingly polite and stiff, Mr. Emrys and his general surliness is like breathing the freshest air imaginable. He judges Arthur not by the money he has, or the clothes he wears, but by how irritating Arthur is to him. Even his the young men in is social circle at school were never this honest with him, or as sharp witted.

“How was America?” Mr. Emrys asks as he stashes one of Arthur’s ties in the chest of drawers. Other than the time they shared a drink together, Mr. Emrys was a blur of motion around the suite while helping, and Arthur is oddly pleased that Mr. Emrys hasn’t changed in the last few months.

The question, however, makes Arthur heave a heavy sigh and collapse dramatically on the bed, “Remember how I complained that night after I was forced to squire Lady Margaret to the club?”

“That was the night you didn’t want to get soused alone and deigned to share your drink?”

“I did not want to get soused.” Arthur snaps indignantly.

Mr. Emrys pauses, holding a pair of Arthur’s socks, and raises a disbelieving eyebrow, “You wanted a whole bottle.”

“It was an expression. You were the one who went to get the bottle.”

Mr. Emrys shrugs, and turns away again, continuing in his task. Absurdly, Arthur finds himself launching a pillow at Mr. Emrys’ head. It connects with a satisfying soft thump, and Mr. Emrys turns back, lips pressed together in disapproval. 

“I thought gentleman of society were meant to be better behaved than five year olds.”

“Perhaps I find your exasperation as funny as you find mine.” Arthur challenges, “Anyway, my point was that I think I might have preferred squiring Lady Margaret to the club for the rest of eternity than talk that trip.”

“Don’t think too hard, I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Mr. Emrys says dryly.

Arthur lets out a short, surprised bark of laughter, “You are very rude.”

Mr. Emrys nudges the trunks into the unoccupied servant’s room, but doesn’t bother lifting them onto the shelves. Arthur really should complain about lackadaisical service, but he can’t really find it in him to do so. It isn’t as though George is occupying the room and needs the space to walk around, and Mr. Emrys is lean enough that a stiff breeze could knock him down. It probably isn’t wise to have him lifting trunks. Though, Arthur thinks upon remembering the shove the first day they met, looks can be deceiving.

“You don’t seem too bothered by it.”

“Lord knows why.” Arthur complains.

He does have an inkling as to why. It isn’t only that he’s spent his whole life dealing in carefully veiled conversation, it has something to do with Mr. Emrys himself. It’s in his endearing smile, in the way it makes his entire face crinkle up with the force of it. It’s in the way he doesn’t regard Arthur as any better or worse than him, and is expressive. Every emotion plays out on his face, and it makes it that much easier to trust him, let him get away with things you wouldn’t normally. Even his laugh seems to welcome the person hearing it, encouraging them to join in the amusement as well.

Satisfied with his work, Mr. Emrys dusts his hands off on his trousers like he did the last time Arthur saw him standing over the trunks. He sends Arthur a small pleased little quirk of his lips, and closes the door to the servant’s room behind him. “Right. I’ve been relieved of most of my duties, but not all. Is there anything you need before I am unlikely to be able to tend to your personally for the rest of the afternoon?”

“No, I thought I might spend some time in the smoking longue. I’m dreadful at cards, but it will pass the time.”

“Word of advice, don’t get into any card game where actual money is gambled.” Mr. Emrys warns, “Professional gamblers ply their trade there, and we have yet to find a way of keeping them taking our guests for all they are worth.”

“Really?” Arthur tilts his head down disbelievingly, “Professional gamblers.”

Mr. Emrys raises his eyebrows and shrugs a little, already turning to exit through the door to the suite. Leave it to the rascal to leave Arthur with more questions than answers. If it is unwise to play cards, he can invent a game of his own. After all, is it very difficult to pick a professional gambler out of a crowd?

*

“How do most people spend their time while on board?” Arthur asks on the second night as Mr. Emrys hangs the dinner jacket of the day neatly in the wardrobe.

“Most of the first class passengers barely leave the room during the day.” 

“That sounds unbearably dull.”

“You spent four months with them, and declared that you would rather spend all your time with a woman who drove you to drink.” Mr. Emrys reminds him, eyes laughing even as he tries to hide his amusement.

“You don’t think very highly of the nobility do you?” Arthur asks, leaning against the chest of drawers.

“I have very little reason to be fond of them, that’s all.” It’s the closest Mr. Emrys has come to expressing an opinion about something. Arthur finds himself gripped with fascination, wondering what insights could come from a man whose world is so decidedly different to his own.

“Care to explain why?”

“Not really. I’d like to keep my job.”

“Surely you know I wouldn’t cause you trouble for an opinion?” Arthur asks, frowning with dismay, “You have been a great help.”

“Really? I thought I was incompetent, rude, and useless.” Mr. Emrys jokes.

Arthur rolls his eyes, “You are all of those things, but you can at least hold clothes without tripping all over yourself.”

“I think you should take Lady Morgana to the second class lounge.” Mr. Emrys suggests apropos of nothing.

Arthur blinks, trying to keep up with the sudden switch in topic, “Excuse me?”

“You keep saying how bored you are. Second class is more relaxed, friendlier. I don’t know, I thought that might be a nice change of pace for you both.”

“That is surprisingly observant.”

“Not such an idiot then.”

“That remains to be seen. If your suggestion proves fruitful, then perhaps I will consider revoking the title of idiot.”

“Such gracious behavior from your lordship.”

“Shut up.” Arthur says reflexively.  
Mr. Emrys’ suggestion does indeed prove to be useful, damn him. His father would have a heart attack if he could see his two children rubbing elbows with people who have nothing to offer in the way of proposals or marriage. Arthur chooses not to care. One look at Morgana’s smiling face, after it had grown pinched with worry the closer they got to Southampton, and Arthur decided that whatever rules they needed to live by could be set aside for the time being.

*

“Do you have any urgent duties to rush off to?” Arthur asks when he returns to his suite after dinner on the third day.

Mr. Emrys looks up from the nightshirt he’s holding, looking faintly puzzled, “No. The duties today were light.”

“Care to stay for a round of cards?” Arthur asks, reluctant to let Mr. Emrys leave for the evening. It won’t be long before he is back at Camelot, and he will have to leave the rude and fascinating Mr. Emrys behind. It will be back to expectations and duties.

“I am very good at cards.” Mr. Emrys warns as he settles on a settee next to the low table in the sitting room.

Arthur finds himself filled with warmth at the confirmation that he isn’t the only one who enjoyed this. Normally, concerns about abusing his position would rattle around his head far too much to make such an offer, but Mr. Emrys has proven time and again that he is unafraid to let Arthur know what he thinks. If he didn’t want to stay for cards, he wouldn’t.

A round of cards turns into several. They gamble against each other using spare buttons –George packed them for emergency repairs should Arthur break one while travelling—as currency. It is late at night, and Mr. Emrys proved not to be exaggerating his card skills in the least. His pile of buttons is nearly twice the size of Arthur’s.

“Final hand.” Mr. Emrys warns, “I have to be up early tomorrow to start getting things ready for docking.”

“Final hand.” Arthur agrees.

He deals the cards, eyes Mr. Emrys carefully, searching for any sign of a tell. Mr. Emrys glances up at him then, smug as all can be, and shoves his entire pile of buttons into the center of the table. He raises a challenging eyebrow at Arthur, and Arthur, never one to back down from a fight, raises his eyebrows in return.

“It’s like that, is it?”

Mr. Emrys shrugs, and sniffs like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Arthur looks over his hand again. Four of a Kind. Difficult to beat. He’s never liked to lose, and he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. He shoves the rest of his buttons into the pile as well, then spreads his cards out on the table, smirking.

The corner of Mr. Emrys’ mouth ticks up, and he displays his cards. Straight Flush. Arthur gapes at the cards as Mr. Emrys lets out a triumphant and dramatically scrapes all of the buttons to his side of the table. The sound is loud in the silence of the cabin, and it fills Arthur’s chest with a warmth he can’t explain.

“You cheated!” he accuses even as he struggles to smooth out the fond grin on his face.

Mr. Emrys laughs, grinning so widely that his eyes practically disappear into the crinkles around them, “You’re just atrocious as cards.”

Arthur shakes his head, “It was a good job we weren’t gambling for real money. I would be out a good deal of it.”

“Speak for yourself, I could have used that money.” Mr. Emrys says and stands up, reaching for his jacket, “I’ll be back in the morning to get everything packed for your departure.”

“Have a good night, Mr. Emrys.” Arthur says as he begins sliding the cards back into their packet.

“Merlin.”

Arthur looks up to find Mr. Emrys paused in the doorway, “Pardon?”

“My name.” Mr. Emrys explains, “I thought if we were going to be drinking and playing cards together, you may as well call me by my first name. At least when you’re not in polite company.”

“Have a good night, Merlin.”

Mr. Emrys, no, Merlin, gives him one last bright sunlit grin, and vanishes into the corridor beyond.

*

“That’s going to wrinkle.” Arthur says critically.

“Feel free to step in anytime.” Merlin retorts as he struggles to fit a pair of shoes in on top of a stack of shirts.

Arthur takes pity on him and crouches next to Merlin on the floor. Their shoulders brush together as Arthur reaches out and releases the catch for the shoe pocket in the lid of his trunk. Merlin turns his head, and this close Arthur can make out the flecks of lighter blue in his eyes.

“You waited this long to show me that?” Merlin asks sharply.

Arthur smiles at him, stomach tingling with laughter and being so close to another soul, “Watching you flail about is good entertainment.”

“Prat.”

“I’m a lord, Merlin, surely even you know you’re meant to respect your betters.”

“Sorry, Lord Prat, then.”

Arthur closes the lid to the trunk, latches it, stands, and offers Merlin a hand up. Merlin takes it with a great deal of good natured complaining, but without any hesitation. His hand is cool in Arthur’s, and rough from carrying things all over the ship.

“You know, as much as I hated this trip,” Arthur says, transfixed by a thin scar in the webbing of Merlin’s thumb, “you are the only thing that I actually enjoyed.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees breathlessly, brushing his thumb over the back of Arthur’s hand, “you drive me mad, but I’ve never had a better time while working.”

Arthur glances up, meeting Merlin’s gaze. His stomach drops out from under him at the hopeful, almost shy look in Merlin’s eyes. His eyes flicker down to Arthur’s lips, there and gone in a second. Arthur could ignore it, could let go of Merlin’s hand and pretend he didn’t see. He really doesn’t want to. He leans forward, prepared to throw caution to the wind.

There’s a loud knock on the door, followed by Guinevere’s voice calling, “I’m sorry to be a bother Lord Arthur, but I could use Mr. Emrys’ help with one of Lady Morgana’s heavier trunks.”

Merlin releases his hand, steps back, “I should go take care of that.”

“Right.” Arthur says stiffly, “It was a pleasure working with you, Merlin.”

“I hope it happens again someday, Lord Pendragon.”

“Arthur.”

Merlin looks up, eyes wide, “Sorry?”

“If we’re to be on a first name basis, it’s only fair you call me by mine as well. Arthur.”

Merlin smiles a bit, tilting his head in the way that makes him look like a pleased cat, “Hope I see you again someday, Arthur.”


End file.
